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BY 


F.    A.    MOORE. 


i^flanrljcstcr,  K.  52?. 
WILLIAM    H  .    F  I  S  K 


1850. 


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T 


^  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  ]850,  by 

<  WILLIAM   U    FISK, 

?  !:i  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  New     [ 
J  Hampshire. 


RTEUEOTYrEl)   AT  THE 
BOSTON       S  T  i;  11  1".  O  T  Y  r  i;      F  O  r  N  D  R  Y  . 


'>* 


AY 


pheface. 


PREFACE. 


The  appearance  of  the  present  volume  will 
occasion  no  surprise.  It  was  thought  ivell 
enottgh  to  attempt  something  of  a  readable  and 
presentable  kind,  better  suited  to  the  popular 
tastes  than  any  previous  collection  in  this 
quarter.  To  this  end  our  efforts  have  been 
mainly  directed,  and  we  hope,  too,  not  without 
a  degree  of  success. 

The  materials  employed  have  been  such  as 
came  readily  to  hand,  and  no  attempt  has  been 
made  to  embody  a  full  selection  from  New 
Hampshire  literature.  A  less  imposing,  less 
\  presumptuous  task  was  ours.  But  while  angling 
I  in  "  our  waters,"  it  may  seem  invidious,  almost, 
i  that  we  have  not  drawn  more  variously  from 
I    our   New  Hampshire  writers  ;   yet,    in  this  re- 


f^i'47(iG57 


IV 


PREFACE. 


-a 


spect,  we  were  not  unlike  the  fisherman  wlio 
threw  away  his  rod,  not  when  he  had  drained 
the  stream,  but  when  he  had  obtained  his 
"  string-full." 

Of  the  character  and  quality  of  the  work, 
they  will  speak  for  themselves,  and  need  no 
elucidation.  The  writers  are  all  believed  to 
partake  of  New  Hampshire  growth  or  origin  ; 
and  as  such,  arc  presented  to  each  other,  and 
to  their  friends  in  the  Granite  State. 
Apkil,  1850. 


CONTENTS.  V 


CONTENTS 


The  Greeting,         Myron, 11 

By-past  Hours William  B.  Tappan,    .     .  12 

The  Merrimac, William  M.  Richardson,     13 

The  Tomb  of  Stark H.  W.  Horrick,  ....  16 

Sunset, Harriet  Farley,   ....  17 

The  White  Mountains, E.  Jane  Gate,      ....  19 

The  I.yre, Milton  Ward,      ....  25 

The  Granite  Hills, Arthur  B.  Childs,    .     .    .  28 

Our  Mountain  Homes, Mrs.  S.  E.  A.  Barnes,  .     .  29 

The  Old  Woods, David  Gilchrist,  ....  31 

Sabbath  Evening, Caroline  Orne,    ....  33 

The  Sultry  Noon, Carlos  Wilcox,    ....  34 

The  Light  of  Home Sarah  J.  Hale,     ....  35 

Life  in  the  Woods, Ina, 37 

Thoughts  alone, George  Moore,     ....  40 

I  won  her  Heart  in  Autumn,  .     .    .  J.  Q.  A.  Wood,        .     .    .42 

The  Soul  of  Song, Effio  May, 44 

Casual  Counsel, Horace  Greeley,  ....  46 

Original  Thinking, Caroline  Orno,    ....  48 

Lines, Oliver  W.  B.  Peabody,     .  51 

To  the  Merrimac  River,      ....  Theodore  Russell,  .     .    .52 

About  Names, .    .  Ina, 57 

Bridal  Wishes, .  Harriet  Farley,  ....  62 

i,     Woman's  Love, Joanna,       63 


? 


s 


VI  COXTENTS. 


The  Stranger  Maiden's  Death, 65 

Altonock, David  Gilchrist 68 

Stanzas, L.  L., 71 

Can  I  forget  thee  ? Carolus, 72 

I  live  to  love, Effie  May, 73 

I  love  to  live, EtTie  May, 74 

5     The  Beautiful  Ideal, "  Lue," 75 

I     Too  Early  Lost, O.  W.  B.  Peabody, ...  78 

<  Passing  away, M.  A.  Dodge, 81 

<  Press  on, L.,     ........  82 

'     Kindness, Kate  Clarence,  ....  64 

I     May  Day  on  Rock  Raymond, .    .    .     S., 88 

I      Farewell  to  New  England, ....  Mrs.  S.  K.  A.  Barnes,  .     .  90 

(     Speak  kindly,               Josephine  L.  Baker,    .    .  91 

I     Stanzas,  "lone," 92 

/     Aristocracy, N.  P.  Rogers, 93 

j      My  Spirit  Home, N.  Wright, 97 

The  Valley  I  love, Hannah  M.  Br)ant,     .       99 

A  Flower, "  H." 100 

The  Reverie, Olfe, 102 

The  Ideal  of  a  True  Life,  ....  Horace  Greeley,    .     .     .104 

',     The  Spirit  of  Poesy, .    .....    Clara 110 

^     The  Indian  Summer, M.  J.  H., HI 

Old  Man  of  the  .Mountain,      .     .     .  Mrs.  Mury  M.  Glover,     .  112 

Orilla, Harriet  Farley, .    .    .     .114 

Fnctory  Life, E.  B.  M., IIC 

Farewell  to  i^iicnmer, Ell:i  May, 120 

The  Autumn  Rose, Mary  S.  Patlersun,     .     .   122 

Last  Wishes  of  a  Child,    ....  James 'i'.  Fields,  ...  123 

To  a  Sister,        :  J.  M.  Fletcher, .    .    .    .124 

Woman's  Influence, Miss  L.  A.  Parker,     .    .  125 

Stanzas, IlclfU, 129 

Man  Is  not  \\  lial  li(«  wills,  ....  Leonard  Swain,    .    .    .131 


CONTENTS.  Vli 

The  Three  Visions "  lone," 134 

The  Angel's  Wliisper, Martha  A.  Clough,    .    .  136 

The  Wife  to  her  Husband,      .     .     .  Mrs.  C.  S.  Goodale,    .    .  139 

A  Dream  of  Love, N.  Wriglit, 141 

The  same  old  Girl, B.  B.  French,     ....  143 

[  love  a  Laugh, "EffieMay,"    .    .    .     .  144 

Orator>', Samuel  G.  Brown,     .    .  145 

Autumn,  .     .     .     , N.  A.  Haven, 150 

Friendship, Mrs.  D.  W.  Holt,  .    .     .151 

Beauty, >     •     •     Caroline, 152 

Books, A.  B.  Fuller,      ....  154 

They  tell  me.  Love, Horatio  Hale,    ....  160 

The  Phantom  Fisherman,  .     .     .     .     E., 161 

The  Scholar's  Death J.  H.  Warland, ....  163 

Literature, N.  P.  Rogers,     ....  164 

The  Two  Maidens, Sarah  J.  Halo,  ....  167 

Stanzas, "  lone," 168 

To  a  Bride, Hannali  M.  Brj-ant,   .     .  1C9 

Beauty  of  Liglit, Harriet  Farley,      .    .    .171 

Eventide, J.  W.  P., 173 

Now  England, J.  M.  Fletcher, ....  175 

The  Valley  Cemetery, Mrs.  Mary  M.  Glover,     .  176 

Mystery,  Reason,  Faith,      ....  Ephraim  Peabody,     .    .  177 

Stanzas, :     .     .    .    H.  N.  L., 179 

The  Lovely  Dead, J.  R.  Dodge 181 

Dream  of  the  Indian  Prophet,     .     .  J.  Q.  A.  Wood,      .     .     .182 

The  Uses  of  Sorrow, Henry  Steele  Clarke,     .  184 

My  Childhood's  Home, Julia  A.  A.  Sargeant,     .  188 

The  White  Mountains, William  B.  Tanpan,  .     .190 

Monadnock, William  B.  O.  Peabody,   191 

A  Dream  of  Ambition, Kate  Clarence,      ,    .    .  193 

The  Young  Bride,           J.  T.  Fields,      ....  196 

The  Heart's  Guest,         Mrs.  Orne,    .    .    .-  .    .197 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

Mudngs, A.  M.  H., 199 

The  Bachelor's  Song, F.  A.  A., 201 

On  a  I^ad} '.s  rortruit, Horace  Greeley,    ...  203 

Ladies'  Dresses, Hosca  Ballou,    ....  304 

Novel-Heading, Elizabotli, 205 

Reminiscences  of  Childhood,      .     .  Leighton, 208 

Brighter  Moments, W., 210 

The  Novice, •  Samuel  T.  Hildrcth,  .    .  211 

1  am  Dreaming, M.  H.  A., 213 

The  Green  Mountain  Maid,    .    .    .  Joseph  C.  Neal,      .     .    .  214 

To  an  Irish  Boy, A.  A.  J., 217 

The  Sunbeam, Lucy, 219 

Character, Charles  B.  Hadduck,      .  220 

Song  of  tlic  Factory  Girl,    ....  J.  II.  Warland,      .    .     .  223 

The  Loved  and  Lost, O.  \V.  Whittier,     .    .    .225 

Higher, J.  P.  Chase, 226 

Lines, Olive, 22S 

^     The  Man  I  like, Clara 229 

Legislation, N.  T.  Rogers,     ....  231 

I  sing  to  liini, i^arali  J.  Hale,  ....  234 

I  can  tell  of  a  Home, C.  F.  C, 235 

The  Brotherhood  of  Man B.  M.  Tillotson,     ...  237 

To  a  Bachelor, 240 

The  New  Ilami)shiro  Girls,     .     .  J.  T.  Fields 212 

My  First  Love, .Vn  Old  Bachelor,      .    .213 

We'll  meet  again Snnuiel  T.  HiUlreth, .     .247 

Conquest  is  ours, H.  N.  L., 248 

Hampton  Beach, J.  O.  Adams,     ....  249 

Stanzas, O.  \V.  1!.  IValmdy,    .     .  2.'a 

('oming  i>(  Winter,     - .1.  li.  A.  Wood,      .     . 

Jmnioitality T.  O.  Lincoln,  .     .     . 

Tlie  Volunteer's  Farewell,      .     .    .  Mrs.  S.  U.  A.  Barnes, 

Our  Factory  Girls, Nancy  P.  Healey,.    . 


CONTENTS. 


Tlie  Old  Granite  State, George  Kent,     ....  267 

A  Sketch, Moses  A.  Cartland,    .    .  269 

Stanzas, M.,        274 

Ultraism, Joseph  Kidder,  ....  275 

The  Doomed  Race, Mrs.  Case, 280 

The  Restless  Heart, M.  G.  Sleeper,  .     .    .    .281 

To  the  Young, B.  M.  Tillotson,     ...  287     I 

The  Pilgrim  of  the  World,  ....  Sarah  J.  Hale,   ....  294 

New  Hampshire, J.  CI.  A.  Wood,      .    .     .295 

Free  Thought, F.  A.  M., 298 

The  Daughter  of  the  Isles,      .    .     .  W.  B.  Tappan,  ....  302 

The  Loved  and  Lost, J.  H.  Warland,  ....  306 

Living  and  Means, Horace  Greeley,     .     .    .  310 


a- 


i  THE    GREETING.  11 


THE    GREETING. 

Sisters,  we  come  from  each  rocky  dale, 
Each  woodland  home,  and  each  fertile  vale,  — 
From  the  mountain  side,  the  city's  hum, 
The  shores  of  each  mimic  lake,  we  come. 
Your  approraig  smile  we  m.eekly  wait  — 
Accept  the  wreath  from  the  Granite  State. 
For  you  we  have  come,  with  the  laugh  and  song. 
To  each  and  to  all  our  tributes  belong. 

As  the  lover  twines  a  garland  fail-. 

To  deck  the  loved  one's  clustermg  hau% 

What  varied  hues  in  the  chaplet  beam. 

And  each  from  contrast  the  lovlier  seem  ; 

Thus  noAv,  from  among  our  granite-bound  realms, 

A  chaplet  we'll  wreathe,  bright-sparkling  with  Gems  - 

A  bouquet  culled  from  its  gardens  anew  — 

And  twining  with  care,  inscribe  it  "  For  You." 

Myron. 


12  BY-PAST    HOURS. 


BY-PAST    HOURS. 

Go,  di-eain  of  by-past  hours ; 

In  retrospect,  once  more, 
Pluck  fancy's  gayest  flowers, 

And  revel  in  thy  store. 
Go,  seek  thy  native  cot, 

Scene  of  affection  fi-ce, 
Where  pleasure  cheered  thy  lot, 

A\'Tierc  love  -was  all  to  thee. 

Do  this,  but  never  teU 

The  heartless  world  thy  dream  ; 
Its  scorn  would  hope  dispel, 

Would  crush  the  fairy  theme. 
Do  this,  but  in  thy  breast 

Let  each  fond  AvLsh  expire  : 
For  sorrows  unreprcssed 

Are  his  who  loves  the  lyre. 

miliam  B.  Tappan. 


^^ 


a- 


THE   MERKIMAC.  13 


THE    MERRIMAC. 

Sweet  Merrimac  !  thy  gentle  stream 

Is  fit  for  better  poet's  theme  ; 

For  rich  thy  -waves,  and  gentle  too, 

As  liomc's  proud  Tiber  ever  knew ; 

And  thy  fair  current's  placid  swell 

Would  flow  ill  classic  song  as  well. 

Yet  on  thy  banks,  so  green,  so  sweet. 

Where  wood  nymphs  dance  and  naiads  meet. 

E'en  since  creation's  earliest  dawn, 

No  son  of  song  was  ever  bom ; 

No  muse's  fairy  feet  e'er  trod 

Thy  modest  margin's  verdant  sod ; 

And  'mid  Time's  silent,  feathery  flight. 

Like  some  coy  maiden,  pure  as  light. 

Sequestered  in  some  blest  retreat, 

Far  from  the  city  and  the  great, 

Thy  virgin  waves  the  vales  among 

Have  flowed  neglected  and  unsung. 

Yet  as  the  sailor,  raptured,  hails 

His  native  shores,  his  native  vales,  — 

Returning  home  from  many  a  day 

Of  tedious  absence,  far  away 

From  her  whose  charms  alone  control 


i       14  THE    MERKIMAC. 

The  -vs-arni  affections  of  his  soul,  — 
Thus,  from  life's  stormj',  troubled  sea, 
My  heart  returns  to  ■v'isit  thee. 

Sweet  Nymph,  -whose  fairy  footsteps  press, 
And  viewless  lingers  gaily  dress. 
By  moonlight,  or  by  Ilesper's  beam. 
The  verdant  banks  of  this  sweet  stream,  — 
VTho  oft,  by  twilight's  doubtful  ray. 
With  wood-nymphs  and  with  naiad  gay, 
Lead'st  up  the  dance  in  merry  mood. 
To  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  flood,  — 
All  hail  once  more  !    'Tis  many  a  year 
Since  last  I  came  to  meet  thee  here  ; 
And  much  it  glads  my  heart  once  more 
To  meet  thee  on  this  pleasant  shore ; 
For  here  in  youth,  when  hope  was  high, 
My  breast  a  stranger  to  a  sigh. 
And  my  blood  danced  through  every  vein, 
Amid  the  jolly,  sportive  train 
Of  youths  and  maids,  who,  gathering  round. 
Danced  to  the  flute's  entrancing  sound, 
I  felt  thy  powerful  influence 
The  l)liss  our  bosoms  felt  dispense, 
Delight  on  all  our  bosoms  pour, 
And  make  our  hearts  with  joy  brim  o'er;  — 
Thy  fingers  on  each  virgin's  chock 
Impressed  the  witching  "  dimple  sleek," 


( 
THE    MERRIMAC.  15      ' 

> 
< 

Bade  masic  smiles  and  blushes  meet  J 

In  mixture  ravisliingly  sweet,  i 

And  many  a  face  a  charm  possess,  > 

Which  then  I  felt,  but  can't  express. 

Blest  days  !  —  alas,  forever  past  I 
Sunk  in  the  ocean  deep  and  vast 
Of  years,  "whose  dread  profundity 
Is  pierced  by  none  but  Fancy's  eye,  — 
Your  joA^s,  like  gems  of  pearly  light. 
There  hallowed  shine  in  Fancy's  sight. 
What  though,  beside  this  gentle  flood, 
Bedewed  with  tears  and  wet  with  blood, 
Profusely  shed  by  iron  ^Mars 
In  wild  ambition's  cruel  wars. 
No  evergreen  of  glory  waves 
Among  the  fallen  Avarriors'  graves  ? 
What  though  the  battle's  bloody  rage, 
"Where  mad,  contending  chiefs  engage, 
The  njinphs  that  rule  these  banks  so  green. 
And  naiads  soft,  have  never  seen  ? 
What  though  ne'er  tinged  this  crystal  wave 
The  rich  blood  of  the  fallen  brave  ? 
No  deathless  deed  by  hero  done, 
No  battle  lost,  no  "S'ictory  won. 
Here  ever  waked,  with  praise  or  blame, 
The  loud  uplifted  trump  of  fame  ? 
Here  bounteoiis  spring  profusely  showers 
A  wildemess  of  sweets  and  flowers,  — 


16  THE    TOMB    OF    STAllK. 


The  stately  oak  of  royal  line, 

The  spreading  chn  and  towermg  pine, 

Here  cast  a  purer,  happier  shade 

Than  blood-stained  laurels  ever  made. 

No  wailing  ghosts  of  warriors  slain 

Along  those  peaceful  shores  complain  ; 

No  maniac  virgin,  crazed  -with  care. 

The  moiu-nful  victim  of  despair, 

While  pangs  unutterable  swell 

Her  heai-t  to  -view  the  spot  where  fell 

The  j'outh  who  all  her  soul  possessed. 

Here  tears  her  hair  or  beats  her  breast. 

Ne'er  victor  lords,  nor  conquered  slaves, 

Disgraced  these  banks,  disgraced  these  waves  ; 

But  freedom,  peace,  and  plenty  here 

Perpetual  bless  tho  passing  year. 

fVtUiam  M.  Richardsou. 


THE    TOMB    OF    STARK. 

No  trappings  of  state,  their  bright  honors  unfolding. 
No  gorgeous  display,  mark  the  place  of  thy  rest ; 
i     But  the  granite  points  out  whore  thy  body  lies  moiU- 
dcring, 
And  where  tho  wild  rose  sheds  its  sweets  o'er  thy 
breast. 

i 


SUNSET.  17      > 

The  zephyr  of  evening  shall  sport  with  the  willow, 
And  play  through  the  grass  where  the  flowerets  creep, 

While  the  thoughts  of  the  brave,  as  he  bends  o'er  thy     I 
pillow, 
Shall  hallow  the  spot  of  the  hero's  last  sleep. 

As,  from  glory  and  honor,  to  death  thou  descendedst,       ^ 
'Twas  meet    thou    shouldst  lie  by  the  Merrimac's 
wave ; 
It  was  well  thou  shouldst  sleep  'mongst  the  hills  thou 
defendedst. 
And  take  thy  last  rest  in  so  simple  a  grave. 

There  forever  thou'lt  sleep,  — and  though  ages  roU  o'er 
thee, 

And  crumble  the  stone  o'er  thy  ashes  to  earth  ; 
The  sons  of  the  free  shall  with  reverence  adore  thee, 

The  pride  of  the  mountains  which    gave  thee  thy 

birth. 

H.  TV.  Herriclu 


SUNSET. 


Come  with  me,  brother,  forth  ;  and  view  the  sun, 
How  he  goes  down  in  glory.     Brilliant  light 
Is  in  the  air  :  and  brilliance  on  the  waves. 
Each  slight,  thin  cloud  is  now  irradiate. 
And,  'neath  our  feet,  we  tread  the  only  shade. 


2  * 


18  SUNSET. 

Thou  wast  not  here  last  eve  ;  and  sawest  not 

His  other  glorious  valedictory  suit. 

DoA^•n^vard  he  came  —  down,  from  the  chaos  thick 

Of  a  wild  storm,  which  like  a  troubled  deep 

Left  the  dark  sky,  and  sailed  into  a  smooth 

And  golden  sea,  which  shimmered  in  the  west. 

Then  downward  still,  behind  the  riven  cloud, 

"Which,  like  a  massive,  broken  wall,  was  there 

Upon  the  horizon  low  ;  and,  even  like 

The  glowing  parapets  of  Heaven,  was  rich 

In  ruby  and  in  amethystine  hues. 

Like  the  hot  glow  of  living  fire  was  light 

Behmd  that  bastion  cloud  ;  and  then  the  sun 

Went  down  below  the  earth,  while  far  away. 

Gleaming  through  every  rift  and  broken  space, 

Spread  the  rich  mantling  blush ;    and,  upwai'd  there, 

Inverted  billows  of  the  deep  above 

Caught  on  their  hanging  heads  a  crimson  cap. 

And  hovered  like  a  gay  and  liveried  host. 

O'er  his  farewell  descent.     He  grows  not  old, 

Like  temples  wliich  their  ruins  strew  around 

Us  here ;  but  fresh,  unworn,  and  strong,  as  in 

That  day  when  set  in  firmament  above. 

Brother,  he  now  has  bade  us  all  adieu, 

And  left  the  world  to  moonlight  and  to  dreams. 

Harriet  Farley. 


THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


19     I 


THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


"  Cool  enough  up  there :  plenty  cool  enough. 
Showers  every  day,  green  as  emerald  all  about !  De- 
licious, I  do  assure  you,  going  from  these  hot,  parched 
regions." 

This  is  M-hat  people  say  when  they  come  back  to  us 
from  the  mountains.  And  to  us  who  have  lately  seen 
all  and  felt  all,  what  dreams  of  freshness,  and  comfort, 
and  wonder  do  their  rhapsodies  beget !  Of  the  moun- 
tains themselves,  swelling  and  towering  up  to  the 
very  heavens,  rocks  as  large  as  houses,  torn  and 
frightful,  waiting  only  until  we  come  along  the  accom- 
plishment of  their  "dire  intent"  of  crushing  some- 
body ;  the  sunshine  and  the  beautiful  blue  mists,  the 
darkness,  nowhere  else  so  intense,  the  vapors  and  the 
storms,  nowhere  else  so  headlong,  sudden  and  tumul- 
tuous as  among  the  mountains.  These,  ah  !  and  the 
moonlight,  and  the  mountain  streams  leaping  clear 
and  bright  as  crystal  down  their  rocky  way.  And 
here,  par  parenthese,  lot  mo  ask  it  of  my  readers  who 
have  been  at  the  mountains,  if,  in  any  other  place  they 
ever  saw  such  intensely  green  foliage,  ever  felt  such 
invigorating  airs,  or  treasured  memories  which  ^^ill 
have  such  power  to  cool  and  refresh  them,  in  all  the 


20  THE    •\VIIITE    MOUNTAINS. 

hot,  -wearisome  days  of  their  earthly  life,  as  along 
these  same  mountain  streams,  at  the  Basin,  the  Flume, 
and  the  "Wliirlpool. 

Aprojws  to  the  sudden  showers  and  storms.  "\Vc 
start  out  to  ride  a  few  miles  for  air  and  exercise,  for  a 
search  after  mosses,  minerals,  and  flowers,  to  see  how 
people  live  off  there,  to  make  our  way  into  some  log 
cabin  we  passed  in  coming  to  the  Mountain  House, 
ostensibly  to  get  some  water,  but  really  to  see  if  it  is 
not  "  as  dark  as  pitch  within,"  and  as  dismal  and  com- 
fortless as  can  be.  The  sun  is  shining,  and  there  is 
only  one  cloud  to  be  seen.  Wc  observe  it  particu- 
larly, on  account  of  having  had  already  several  cxtem- 
\  porancous  drenchings.  There  is  but  one  cloud,  and 
that  is  no  larger  than  a  man's  coat,  —  with  its  skirts 
and  sleeves  well  spread,  dear  reader,  —  and  it  lies 
away  off  at  the  north-western  horizon.  \Ve  venture 
out,  therefore,  in  a  light  open  buggy,  with  our  para- 
sols for  the  sunshine  of  the  cleared  districts,  and  our 
cashmeres  for  the  cool,  damp  shade  of  the  woods. 
Away  wc  go.  Our  horse,  it  appears  to  us,  absolutely 
flies  over  the  road  to  "the  music  of  the  spheres"  — 
for  this  it  seems  to  us  to  be,  the  deep,  strange  silence 
of  the  place,  frona  which  yet  there  comes  such  deep, 
strange  melody,  when  we  bend  our  car  and  thought, 
and  listen  as  we  go.  "Wc  know  that  birds  have  a  part 
in  the  concert,  or  wo  presume  they  have  ;  for  we  look 
upward,  and  a  giant  hawk 


m 


I 


11^ 


-m 


THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  21 

"  poised  on  Iiigli, 
Flaps  his  broad  wing,  yet  moves  not." 

We  turn  to  either  side  of  the  way,  and  birds  are  on 
the  wing.  Sprays,  which  they  have  just  left,  are 
quivering,  and  those  on  which  they  have  just  settled, 
are  swaying  to  and  fro.  Before  us,  also,  are  they  trot- 
ting along,  ever  and  anon  turning  half  around,  with  a 
hope  to  look  at  us,  while  from  the  tree  tops,  birds  of 
heavier  mould  and  gayer  colors  sail  gracefully  out, 
make  their  short  circuit  of  supervision,  and  again  settle 
in  their  leafy  coverts  to  eye  us  as  we  pass.  "VVe  know 
that  all  these,  and  thousands  which  we  do  not  see,  are 
<'  poua-ing  their  little  throats  ;  "  but  it  is  not  this  —  we 
hear  something  beyond  all  this  when  we  listen  and  are 
still.  We  feel  in  those  moments  that  the  great  temple 
in  which  we  are  has  an  inner  sanctuary,  that  as  yet  we 
have  never  entered,  of  infinite  beauty,  infinite  purity, 
and  infinite  joy.  Its  "beautiful  gates"  are  only  occa- 
sionally opened  to  us  ;  and  it  is  then  that  we  hear 
those  low,  dreamy  sounds,  as  it  were  "the  melting 
songs  of  other  worlds ; "  then  that  those  breezes  fan 
us  and  supply  our  breath,  which  make  us  "  drunk 
with  beauty."  We  do  not  know,  it  may  be,  that  this 
is  not  all  illusion.  Since  heaven  is  all  around  us,  it 
may  be  that  sometimes  we  are  so  far  spiritualized  as  to 
enter  upon  the  borders  of  the  beautiful  land,  and  to 
enjoy  for  a  few  moments,  and  in  a  poor  degree,  some  of 
its  delights.     But  it  is  not  long  ;  for  it  troubles  us. 


m- 


22  THE    •\VH1TE    MOUNTAINS.  } 

We  are  torn  between  a  yearning  to  be  away,  to  enter  >. 
at  once  the  sanctuary  of  beauty  and  holiness,  and  the  I 
gross  materialism  which  still  fastens  us  to  the  earth.  ( 
This  we  cannot  bear  long,  and  therefore  we  are  not  / 
long  silent.  "Wc  begin  talking  fast  to  the  birds,  to  our  i 
companions,  and  to  our  good  steed.  AVe  wield  our  I 
sledge  among  the  rocks  along  the  way,  or  hunt  the  | 
pale  flowers,  and  arrange  neatly  every  petal,  every 
stamen,  amongst  the  leaves  of  an  old  singing  book 
taken  along  for  this  very  purpose  ;  or —  but  what  was 
that  ?  —  a  patter  on  a  leaf  near  —  what  was  it  ?  "What 
is  this  on  our  nose  ?  Not  rain  ;  not  rain,  our  compan- 
ions declare,  for  the  sun  —  pooh  !  where  is  the  sim  ? 
We  would  like  to  have  you  show  us  the  sun.  There 
is  not  an  inch  of  the  sky  to  be  seen,  and  that  was  cer- 
tainly a  great  rain  drop  on  that  leaf,  and  on  our  nose. 
It  was  perfectly  natural  that  it  should  alight  on  our 
nose  of  all  the  rest,  for  our  nose  is  a  long  nose,  pro- 
truding itself  far  enough  beyond  the  perimeter  of  our 
little  bonnet. 

It  was  rain ;  no  doubt  of  that  now,  for  it  is  already 
falling  fivst  and  thick.  And  here  we  are,  five  mUes 
from  the  ^lountain  House  !  and  hands  full  of  moss, 
and  flowers,  and  rocks !  No  umbrella,  no  top  nor 
boot  to  our  carriage  —  notliing  but  our  little  bonnets, 
our  little  sunshades,  and  our  cashmeres.  Well,  our 
minerals,  flowers,  and  moss,  must  be  dropped  right 
?     here,  —  that  is  certain  ;  wc  shall  Ixavc  enough  to  do  to 


THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  23 

take  good  care  of  ourselves.  It  is  pleasant  now  —  is  it 
not  ?  —  that  we  have  a  kind  driver,  who  says  good  na- 
turedly,  "  Come,  girls  ;  "  who  looks  up  to  the  clouds, 
and  whistles — whistles  as  he  thoughtfully  gathers  the 
reins  and  whip,  and  who  does  not  once  on  our  way 
back  say,  "  I  thought  —  ah,  wc  should  have  saved  all 
this,  sis ;  we  shouldn't  have  had  this  bath,  coz,  if  you 
had  not  been  there  so  long  musing  and  flower  gather- 
ing." Yes ;  pleasant  that  we  have  not  a  driver  who 
will  say  this  to  us.  We  are  sorry  enough  as  it  is  — 
malgre  we  go  laughing  all  the  Avay  —  to  wet  our  bon- 
nets. We  would  have  no  patience  with  one,  were  he 
brother,  cousin,  lover,  husband,  or  friend,  who,  in  such 
a  case,  would  once  say,  "  I  thought,"  or  "  I  told  you," 
when,  the  truth  known,  he  didn't  any  more  than  we 
did. 

But  snap  !  crack  !  whew  !  how  our  horse  skims  along 
the  way,  and  how  happy  we  are  in  defiance  of  the  rain  ! 
happier,  I  do  believe,  on  this  rain's  very  account. 
And  here  we  are  in  sight  of  Crawford's  :  truly,  it  goes 
to  our  hearts  lilie  the  sight  of  home.  Thrum-um-na 
go  those  ever-rolling  balls.  A  gentleman  is  crossing 
the  street  to  the  alley  with  prodigious  leaps,  all  made 
on  tiptoe ;  and  yonder,  just  disappearing  in  the  Notch, 
is  the  "  Mountain  Ranger."  We  do  not  know  what 
accessions  to  our  company  it  has  left  at  the  Mountain 
House,  or  what  number  of  acquaintances,  formed  there, 
it  is  carrying  forever  from  our  sight.     We  —    But  here 


-m 


'^  THE    -WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

comes  Mr.  Crawford.  Ah  !  we  like  him  as  a  brother. 
I  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  lifts  us  from  our  car- 
S  riage  into  the  piazza,  and  hurries  along  -with  us  through 
^  the  hall,  brushing  the  big  rain  drops  from  our  veils  and 
I  shawls  as  we  go.  "What,  Mr.  Crawford,  "  Diimcr  all 
\  ready?  Been  kept  waiting  for  us /i>e  wuVjwies/ "  Five 
minutes  !  Only  think,  brother  !  Only  think,  cousin  ! 
I  Five  minutes  —  and  in  a  boarding-house  in  America 
I  too  !  and  up  among  the  mountains,  where  people  arc  so 
J  voraciously  hungry.  Wliat,  Mr.  Crawford,  "Trout 
J  from  the  stream  direct,"  did  you  say  ?  Ah  !  "  And 
blackberries  and  cream,  and  blueberry  dumplings,  and 
—  and  — "  Yes,  we  shall  sec.  We  will  dress  in  just 
three  minutes.  Then  such  a  dinner  as  we  will  make 
after  this  drive,  and  on  such  fare  too  !  And  after  din- 
ner we  will  sit  on  the  parlor  sofas,  and  rest,  and  listen 
to  the  contented  buzz  going  on  in  all  the  rooms,  and 
I  buzz  ourselves  occasionally,  and  turn  over  the  leaves  in 
I  «<  Jackson's  Kcport,"  without  reading,  seeing,  or  think- 
I  ing,  and  perliaps  we  will,  noletis  volens,  get  the  least  bit 
I  of  a  siesta  somewhere  along ;  and  if  we  do,  then  we 
/  are  rested  !  Then  we  are  ready  for  any  thing  —  for  the 
^  heartiest  laugh  we  ever  had  yet  over  the  odd  conceits 
i  and  really  witty  things  of  the  albums  ;  for  finding 
I  Uncle  John  and  giving  him  torment  sonic  way,  (luiz- 
zing  the  little  city  dandy,  wlio  fancies  us  aU  in  love 
with  him  ;  for  a  good  and  sensible  chat  with  the  good 
and  sensible  Mrs.  Kcllcy ;  for  a  quarrel  with  Professor 


H^ 


THE    LYRE.  25 

Lane  about  things  in  general ;  or,  better  than  any  of 
these  —  since  it  ■would  help  us  most  effectually  to  rid 
ourselves  of  this  superabundance  of  electricity  —  for  a 
game  at  tenpins,  now  that  the  shower  is  over.  Come, 
cousin ;  come,  brother ;  come,  Professor  Lane,  and  uncle 
John,  —  yes,  do  ccme,  uncle  John,  and  we  will  go  on 
our  knees,  and  not  laugh  once  while  we  ask  your  par- 
don for  throwing  that  water  on  you.  ^Irs.  Kelley, 
please  —  thank  you — yes  v.e  will  all  go  now  to  the 
bowling-room.  Your  arm,  uncle  John ;  only,  don't 
let  me  fall  if  I  slip  in  the  mud,  as  you  did  purposely 
the  other  day. 

F..  Jane  Cdte,  (Franklin.) 


THE    LYRE. 


There  was  a  lyre,  'tis  said,  that  hung 

High  waving  in  the  summer  ak  ; 
An  angel  hand  its  chords  had  strung, 

And  left  to  breathe  its  music  there. 
Each  wandering  breeze,  that  o'er  it  flew, 

Awoke  a  wilder,  sweeter  strain. 
Than  ever  shell  of  mermaid  blew 

In  coral  grottos  of  the  main. 
"When,  springing  from  the  rose's  bell, 

Where  all  night  he  had  sweetly  slept. 


! 


26  THE    LYRE. 

The  zephyr  left  the  flowery  dell 

Bright  -with  the  tears  that  morning  wept : 
He  rose,  and  o'er  the  trembling  Ij-re 

"Waved  lightly  his  soft  aziuro  wing. 
What  touch  such  music  could  inspire  ! 

What  harp  such  lays  of  joy  could  sing  ! 
The  murmurs  of  the  shaded  rills, 

The  birds  that  sweetly  warbled  by, 
And  the  soft  echo  from  the  hills, 

Were  heard  not  where  that  hai-p  was  nigh. 
When  the  last  light  of  fading  day. 

Along  the  bosom  of  the  west, 
In  colors  softly  mingled  lay, 

While  night  had  darkened  all  the  rest, 
Then,  softer  than  that  fading  light, 
]  And  sweeter  than  the  lay  that  rung 

<  Wild  through  the  silence  of  tlic  night, 
}  As  solemn  Philomela  sung, 

'<  That  harp  its  plaintive  murmurs  sighed 

J  Along  the  dewy  breeze  of  even  ; 

I  So  clear  and  soft  they  swelled  and  died, 

I  They  seemed  the  echoed  songs  of  heaven. 

<  Sometimes,  when  all  the  air  Avas  still, 

5  And  not  the  poplar's  foliage  trembled, 

{  ITiat  harp  was  nightly  heard  to  thrill 
;!  AVith  tones  no  earthly  tones  resembled. 

(  And  then,  upon  the  moon's  pale  beams, 
\  Unearthlv  forms  \\  ore  seen  to  stray, 


-^~~^ 


THE    LYRE.  27       ( 


Whose  starry  pinions'  trembling  gleams 

Would  oft  around  the  Avild  harp  play. 
But  soon  the  bloom  of  summer  fled  ; 

In  earth  and  air  it  shone  no  more  ; 
Each  flower  and  leaf  fell  pale  and  dead, 

While  skies  their  wintry  sternness  wore. 
One  day,  loud  blew  the  northern  blast, 

The  tempest's  fury  raged  along  ; 
O  for  some  angel,  as  they  passed. 

To  shield  the  harp  of  heavenly  song  ! 
It  sliricked  —  how  could  it  bear  the  touch, 

The  cold,  rude  touch  of  such  a  storm, 
When  e'en  the  zephyr  seemed  too  much 

Sometimes,  though  always  light  and  warm  ! 
It  loudly  shrieked  —  but  ah,  in  vain  : 

The  savage  wind  more  fiercely  blew ; 
Once  more  —  it  never  shrieked  again, 

For  every  chord  was  torn  in  two. 
It  never  thrilled  with  anguish  more, 

Though  beaten  by  the  wildest  blast ; 
ITie  pang,  that  thus  its  bosom  tore, 

Was  dreadful  —  but  it  was  the  last. 
And  though  the  smiles  of  summer  played 

Gently  upon  its  shattered  form. 
And  the  light  zephyrs  o'er  it  strayed. 

That  Lyre  they  could  not  wake  or  warm. 

Milton    Ward. 


28  THE    GRANITE    HILLS. 


THE    GRAXITE    HILLS. 

The  Granite  Hills  !     How  sweet  those  words 

Are  always  to  my  car  ! 
What  pleasant  thoughts  e'er  cluster  round 

My  native  state,  so  dear  ! 

From  boyhood's  earliest  hours  I've  roamed 

Amidst  her  hills  and  dales, 
I've  seen  licr  frowning  torrents  pour, 

And  heard  her  mountain  gales. 

Her  lakes  so  smooth,  so  pure,  so  clear, 

liright  mirrors  of  the  sky, 
No  lake  of  sunny  Italy 

Can  with  their  beauties  vie. 

I've  gazed  on  pictures  rare,  and  drawn 

With  limner's  nicest  skill, 
But  ah,  no  painting  gladdens  me 

Like  Old  New  ILunpshire's  hills. 

When  I  am  gone,  I  will  but  ask 
Somo  quiet,  shady  grove. 


'•-^■^^~^^~-»ii 


OUS    MOUNTAIN    HOMES.  29 

That  I  may  slumber  undisturbed 

Amid  the  scenes  I've  loved. 
Then  lay  me  wlicre  some  silent  stream 

Its  narrow  channel  fills, 
With  many  a  leafy  bough  o'erhead, 


Among  the  Granite  Hills. 


Arthur  B.  Ckilds. 


OUR    MOUNTAIN    HOMES. 

The  glad,  green  earth  beneath  our  feet, 

The  blue,  bright  heaven  is  greeting ; 
And  voiceless  praise  is  rising  up. 

Responsive  to  the  meeting. 
Yet  wherefore  wakes  a  scene  like  this 

The  warm  hciU't's  wild  emotion  ? 
The  slave  may  boast  a  home  as  bright 

Beyond  the  pathless  ocean. 

"Why  do  we  love  our  mountain  land  ? 

The  murnuiring  of  her  waters  ? 
Italia's  clime  is  far  more  bland. 

More  beautiful  her  daughters  ! 
Why  pine  we  for  our  native  skies  ? 

Our  cloud- en  circled  mountains  ? 

3  * 


30 


OUU    MOUNTAIN'    HOMES. 


The  hills  of  Spain  as  proudly  rise, 

As  freshly  bxirst  her  fountains  ! 
Alas  for  mount  or  classic  stream, 

By  deathless  memories  haunted  ! 
For  there  Oppression,  uiu-ebuked. 

His  iron  foot  hath  planted. 
The  curse  is  on  licr  vine-clad  hills, 

'Tis  life  upon  her  -waters  ; 
But  doubly  deep  upon  her  sons, 

And  on  her  dark-eyed  daughters. 

Go  fling  a  fetter  o'er  the  mijid, 
And  bid  the  heart  be  purer  ; 

Unnerve  the  warrior's  lifted  arm, 
And  bid  his  aim  be  surer  ; 

Go  bid  the  weary,  prisoned  bird 
Unfurl  her  powerless  pinion  ;  — 

But  ask  not  of  the  mind  to  brook 
The  despot's  dark  dominion  ! 


Why  turn  we  to  our  mountain  homes 

"With  more  than  filial  feeling  ? 
'Tis  here  that  Freedom's  altars  rise. 

And  Freedom's  sons  aie  kneeling  ! 
"Why  sigh  wc  not  for  .softer  chmcs  ? 

Why  cling  to  tliat  which  bore  us  r 
'Tis  here  we  tread  on  Freedom's  soil, 

A\'ith  Freedom's  sunsluuc  o'er  us ! 


THE     OLD     WOODS.  31 

This  is  her  home  —  this  is  her  home, 

The  dread  of  the  oppressor  ; 
And  this  her  hallowed  birthday  is, 

And  millions  rise  to  bless  her  ! 
'Tis  joy's  high  Sabbath  ;  grateful  hearts 

Leap  gladly  in  their  fountains. 
And  bless  our  God,  who  fixed  the  home 

Of  Freedom  in  the  movuitains  ! 

Mrs.  S.  R.  A.  Barnes,  (^Manchester.) 


THE    OLD    WOODS. 

Old  woods  !  thou  art  venerable  in  thy  years. 

And  thou  hast  grand  and  stately  monuments, 

Wliich  Time  hath  reared  to  mark  his  own  progress. 

But  he  numbers  liis  greatest  strides  with  change  ; 

And  when  he  hath  returned  from  his  far  rounds, 

He  doth  fling  upon  them  his  withering  pall. 

And  they  no  longer  greet  with  foliage 

The  passing  year  at  the  vernal  festival. 

But  tremble  like  a  man  in  weary  age, 

Tin  their  proud  branches  are  bowed  to  the  earth. 

And  they  are  drear  and  stricken  things. 

Then  the  far  winds  gather  and  thi-ow  thejn  down. 

And  bear  on  their  fleet  wings  the  hollow  dirge 


32  THE     OLD     WOODS.  < 

To  Tiill  and  dale  afar.     The  seedlings  rise  up 
In  jiridc  and  beauty,  and  spread  their  branches 
To  the  sky. 

Nature  in  thy  deep  solitudes  doth  reign 
Supreme.     The  presence  of  the  benign  God 
Is  there,  as  light  pervades  the  day,  or  thought 
The  mmd.     And  when  man  hath  become  weary 
Of  his  labors  in  the  world's  strife,  he  may  seek 
A  retreat  in  the  deep  wilderness, 
And  in  the  far,  aU-pervading  stillness 
Of  that  vast  sanctuary,  where  the  nymphs 
Do  hold  communion,  learn  wisdom  not  taught 
In  flowery  domes,  and  with  nature's  truths 
Ecfore  him,  resolve  his  own  imperfect  deeds 
Into  good  (if  aught  there  Ls)  and  evil, 
And  trace  the  stream  of  his  avni  wayward  life 
Back  to  the  crystal  fount  from  whence  it  flowed, 
And  there  —  with  energy  of  thoiight,  unclouded 
By  the  dim  mysteries  that  paralyze 
llie  quickening  intellect,  and  shadow 
Nature's  e\-idencc  of  the  living  God  — 
Learn  the  wondrous  purpose  of  human  life. 

There  is  a  mngic  spirit  in  the  woods, 
Whcrcwitli  wo  may  multiply  the  mystcrica 
Of  the  universe,  and  then  unfold  them. 
And  traro  the  varying,  yet  unvaincd. 


H- 


^J*./^^^  ^  *  r  .^.-  ^»N. 


SABBATH     EVENING.  33 

Hand  of  Divinity,  from  the  flower 

And  germ,  to  the  liigh  monarch  of  the  hills, 

Thence,  in  hnes  of  glowing  inspiration. 

Through  man  to  Heaven. 

David  Oilc/trist. 


SABBATH    EVENING. 

'Tis  the  eve  of  Sabbath ;  all  is  so  still 

That  the  wing  of  the  bird,  as  it  flies  to  its  nest, 

Sends  forth  a  low  rustle,  and  sweet  murmurs  thrill 
On  the  ear,  though  the  earth  and  the  winds  are  at 
rest, 

Like  music  that  flows  from  the  harp's  golden  strings. 

When  swept  by  some  spirit's  invisible  wings. 

Even  yonder  white  cloud,  in  the  fair  evening  sky,  I 

Its  bosom  just  tinged  with  the  hue  of  the  rose,  ^ 

As  it  moves,  hkc  a  fairy  sail,  noislessly  by,  I 

Has  a  look  that  partakes  of  the  Sabbath's  repose  ; 

But  the  calm  and  the  stillness,  more  holy  than  all, 

Are  those  o'er  the  spirit  that  silently  fall. 

As  the  flower,  palo  and  droop'ng,  doth  heavenward 
turn, 
\Vhen  the  day's  gairish  splendor  no  more  meets  its  eye,     I 

-m 


^^ 


34 


THE     SULTRY     XOOX. 


And  while  the  fresh  dewdrops  steal  into  its  urn, 
Its  perfume  gives  out  to  the  breeze  floating  by, 
From  our  hearts  may  the  incense  of  praise,  this  blest 

hour, 
Flow  forth  like  the  fi-agrance  that  breathes  from  the 
flower, 

Caroline  Ornc. 


THE    SULTRY    NOON. 


The  fields  ai-e  still. 
The  husbandman  has  gone  to  his  repast, 
And,  that  partaken  on  the  coolest  side 
Of  his  abode,  reclines,  in  sweet  reijose. 
Deep  in  the  shaded  stream  the  cattle  stand, 
The  flocks  beside  the  fence,  with  heads  all  prone 
And  panting  quick.     The  lields,  for  hiu-vest  ripe. 
Now  breezes  bend  in  smooth  and  graceful  waves, 
While  with  tlieir  motion,  dim  and  bright  by  turns. 
The  sunshine  seems  to  move  ;  nor  e'en  a  breath 
Brushes  idong  the  surface  w  itli  a  sliadc, 
Fleeting  and  tliin,  like  that  of  flying  sjnoke. 
The  slender  staUvs,  their  heavy  bended  lieads 
Sujjport  Its  motionless  lus  oaks  their  tops. 
O'er  all  tlie  woods  the  topmost  leaves  ore  still. 


ia> 


"  ^.*•^-'^.■^«y^•v■*  r- 


THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  35 

E'en  the  wild  poplar  leaves,  that  pendent  hang 
By  stems  elastic,  quiver  at  a  breath. 
Rest  in  the  general  calm.     The  thistle  down 
Seen  liigh  and  thick,  by  gazing  up  beside 
Some  shading  object,  in  a  silver  shower, 
Pliunb  down,  and  slower  than  the  slowest  snow, 
Through  aU  the  sleepy  atmosphere  descends  ; 
And  where  it  lights,  though  on  the  steepest  roof, 
Or  smallest  spire  of  grass,  remains  unmoved. 
White  as  a  fleece,  as  dense  and  as  distinct 
From  the  resplendent  sky,  a  single  cloud 
On  the  soft  bosom  of  the  air  becalmed, 
Drops  a  lone  shadow  as  distinct  and  still, 
On  the  bare  plain,  or  sunny  mountain's  side ; 
Or  in  the  polished  mirror  of  the  lake, 
In  which  the  deep  reflected  sky  appears 
A  calm,  sublime  immensity  below. 

Carlos  Wilcox. 


THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

My  boy,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair. 
And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam, 

And  thou  must  go  ;  hxxt  never  v>'hen  there 
Forget  the  light  of  home. 


ia- 


<       36  TUE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  > 


Thouc;li  i^lcasurc  may  smile  vith  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray  ; 
Lilie  the  meteor's  flash  it  will  deepen  the  iiight, 

When  thou  treadest  the  lonely  way. 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

-A  nd  pure  as  Jhe  vestal  fire  ; 
'Twill  burn,  't\Nill  burn  forever  the  same. 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  ambition  is  tempest  tost, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam  ; 

But  when  sails  arc  shivered  and  rudder  lost, 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home. 

And  tlierc,  like  a  star  thi'ough  the  midnight  cloud. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  beacon  bright, 
For  never,  tUl  shining  on  tliy  shroud. 

Can  be  quenched  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  fame,  'twUl  gild  tlie  name. 

But  the  lieart  ne'er  feels  its  ray  ; 
And  fashion's  smiles  that  rich  ones  claim. 

Arc  like  beams  of  a  wintrv  dav. 


k 


And  how  culil  and  diiu  those  beams  would  be,  \ 

Should  life's  wretched  wanderer  coiiu^  !  ) 

But,  my  boy,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee,  \ 

Tbci;.  turn  to  the  light  of  home.  . 

Saruh  Joscjiha  llule.  J 


LIFE     IN     THE     WOODS. 


37 


LIFE    IN    THE    WOODS. 


When  a  soft  October  clay  comes,  with  a  golden 
haze  in  the  atmosphere,  and  the  whole  earth  is  steeped 
in  languid  bcanty,  have  yon  never  felt  a  vague  Avish 
to  go  off  somewhere  f  Have  you  a  fancy  for  a  life  in 
the  woods  ?  To  start  off  on  some  road  little  travelled, 
and  turn  in  at  the  first  forest  path  you  come  to,  and 
follow  every  winding  wood  track,  rvistling  heedless 
over  falling  leaves,  listening  to  the  jays  calling  to  one 
another  upon  the  trees,  are  Avays  of  spending  time,  for 
which  one  day  is  never  long  enough. 

I  confess  to  a  fascination  for  forest  life.  I  have  been 
reading  about  the  early  settlers  of  Massachusetts  — 
the  little  band  of  emigrants,  guided  by  Thomas  Hook- 
er, who  journeyed  westward  to  the  banks  of  the  C'on- 
necticiit.  Men,  women,  and  children,  with  their  flocks 
and  herds,  wandered  over  the  green  valleys  and 
through  the  broad  forests  of  Massachiisetts,  living  a 
pastoral  life,  as  did  the  patriarchs  in  the  Bible  times. 
What  a  glorious  time  they  must  have  had  of  it  ?  I 
have  read  '*  Eothen,"  too,  till  the  adventurous  spirit  of 
its  fearless  writer  has  fascinated  my  wayward  fancy, 
and  made  me  wish  for  the  freedom  of  the  "  dwellers  in 


< 

38  LIFE    IX    THE    AVOODS.  \ 

J     tents."     My  heart  is  in  it  —  tliis  life  of  vagabondage. 

c 

At  this  moment  —  sitting  here,  -w-ith  the  sunsliine 
flickcrmg  over  my  page,  and  the  falling  leaves  rusliing 
round  mc  —  hoAv  gladly  would  I  exchange  my  quiet 
life  for  a  wild  Indian's  rovijig  !  There  must  be  intense 
interest  in  tlie  uncertainty  and  adventure  of  each  day ; 
constant  and  changing  pleasure  in  new  scenes  ;  health 
and  happiness  in  the  exercise. 

Mary  Ilowitt,  m  the  early  days  of  her  wedded  life, 
travelled  off,  with  her  husband,  over  half  of  Scotland, 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  miles  on  foot.  I  remember, 
too,  about  Audubon.  What  an  enviable  life  has  his 
been,  journeying  off  in  new  countries,  by  day  and  by 
night,  living  among  all  beautiful  tilings,  liimself  hardy, 
bold,  and  robust,  and  with  the  fine  pliisique  essential 
to  their  enjoyment !  And  his  wife  — a  most  noble  and 
lovable  woman,  in  the  measure  of  her  intellect  and 
affections  —  sluu-ed  ■\\'ith  him  tlie  toils  and  the  perils, 
—  O,  yes,  and  the  liappincss,  beyond  expression,  —  of 
those  wanderings ;  the  bark  canoe  on  the  unliuo'mi 
river  ;  the  scant  nu\d  of  berries  in  the  patldess  woods  ; 
the  bii-ds'  music ;  tlie  leafy  shade ;  the  thousand  beau- 
tiful and  charming  tilings  in  that  boundless  west. 
J  History  tells  us  of  the  wife  of  nn  cm-ly  settler,  who 
I  came  over  n  peerlessly  lovely  bride,  from  cultivated 
\  England,  to  the  wilderness  of  our  new  world.  Though 
'  mistress  of  a  stately  home  in  lier  native  land,  she 
]     chose   the    dangers    and  privations,   and  tlie  wild  ad- 


m^- 


LIFE     IX     THE     "WOODS.                                      39  '. 

venture  of  a  life  with  him.     She  had  the  erect  form  ' 

and  glorious  health  of  her  countrywomen ;  she  had  ; 

> 

the  love,  and  devotion,   and  self-sacrificing  spu-it  of  a  J 

true  -s^afe  ;  and  through  the  forests  of  Maine,  and  along  > 

> 

the  margin  of  the  great  lakes,  she  journeyed  without  > 

other   companion  than  lier   husband.     I  fancy,   with  > 

pleasui-c,  the  picture  of  this  refined  and  elegant  wo-  ', 

man,  in  her  lit  and  beautiful  half-Indian,  half-lady-  ! 

like,  and  all-coquettish  costume,  passing  years  in  that  j 

Avild,  exciting,  but  most  delightful  life.  ! 

There   was   Daniel  Boone,   too.     That  man  had   a  { 

> 

most  noble  character  —  fearless,  bold,  and  determined,  I 

with    Ids   strong    backwoodsman's   arm,  his  chivalric,  ' 

right  generous  heart.     I  like  to  think  of  him  —  that  > 

pioneer  of  the  west,  moving  on  farther  and  farther  into  | 

the  wddemess  ;  raising,  at  last,  his  log  cabin,  where  the  i 

smoke  from  no  settler's  hut  had  ever  risen,  beyond  the  > 

reach,  or  sight,  or  sound  of  civilized  life  !     O,  he  must  ', 

have    enjoyed   it  —  that   brave    old   soul,    sharing    no  | 

companionship  but  Ms  own  thoughts,  and  the  presence  | 

of  the  God  above  him,  and  leading  his  life  of  loneh-  > 

ness  among  the  glorious  things  of  creation.  J 

I  love  to  read  of  wild  adventure  ;  of  wandering  life  ;  > 

of  De  Soto  on  the  IMississippi ;  Boone  in  the  -wilderness ;  i 

Audubon  on  the  distant  prairies  of  the  West ;  and  O,  * 

most  touchingly  and  tenderly  beautiful,  that  talc  of  ) 

love's  pilgrimage  from  green  Acadia  to  the  luxuriant  J 

shore  of  the   Father   of   waters  ;  fi-om   the   voyagers'  > 


40 


THOUGHTS     ALOXE. 


path  over  the  desert,  to  the  missionaries'  lodge  in  the 
West  —  the  sweet,  sad  story  of  Evangeline. 

Ina,  (.Vfie  London.) 


THOUGHTS    ALONE. 

The  world  is  still ;    the  shadows  grow 

Silently  through  the  evening  aii- ; 
Nightward  day's  sparkling  moments  flow, 

To  lose  their  light  and  clearness  there. 
And  I  am  all  alone  ;  the  shade 

Of  twilight  casts  its  sombre  gloom, 
And  sunny  thoughts  aU  seem  to  fade. 

As  hopes  die  at  the  loved  one's  tomb. 

O  for  some  heart  to  beat  \\-ith  mine, 

Some  love  to  llmlit  its  holy  flame  ; 
Some  soul  to  wliioh  I  coidd  resign 

Each  hope  of  life,  each  high-wrought  aim ; 
Some  one  to  trust,  as  life  goes  on, 

With  a  love  as  pure  as  heaven's  light, 
Which,  when  the  rays  of  day  are  gone, 

Sliincs  in  the  starry  robes  of  night ! 


B~^' 


M 


) 


THOUGHTS     ALONE. 

Yes,  I  could  love  some  trustful  one, 

Whose  heart  was  pure,  and  free  from  guile. 
Whose  voice  should  soothe  till  life  was  done, 

Whose  look  should  cheer  by  its  happy  smUe ; 
Or,  if  the  sorrows  of  earth  should  twine 

Their  myrtle  wreaths  around  the  heart, 
And  shade  the  sunlight  of  hope  divine. 

Who  might  pray  with  me  for  the  better  part. 

To  feel  I  was  loved  and  trusted  here. 

Where  so  few  will  trust  their  hearts  in  love. 

Where  few  can  shed  sympathy's  tear. 
Or  breathe  together  hopes  above  ; 

To  feel  a  care  so  deep  and  strong. 

To  unbosoni  every  cherished  thought, 

To  gain  affections  which  so  long- 
Have  been  in  constant  yearnings  sought,  — 

To  clasp  the  hand  wliich  shall  greet  my  own, 

To  hear  the  voice  wliich  shall  always  send 
Through  the  heai-t  a  cheerful  tone,  — 

This  is  the  life  that  I  would  spend. 
Then  these  lone  hours  Avould  blend  with  those 

Sacred  to  love's  inspmng  throng  ; 
And  sweeter,  as  life  draws  to  its  close. 

Would  rise  the  notes  of  its  happy  song. 

OeorsB  Moore. 


4* 


41     \ 


-a 


42 


I    WON    HER    HEAKT    IN    AUTUMN. 


I    WON    HER   HEART    IN    AUTUMN. 

I  WON  her  heart  in  aiitumn, 

That  brings  the  golden  da^\■n, 
"When  crimsoned  -were  the  forest  leaves, 

The  honeysuckle  gone. 
But  she  is  not  what  slic  has  been 

To  me  in  moments  past  — 
The  silver  chord  is  broken, 

And  golden  bowl,  at  last ! 

She  was  a  fairy  creature, 

^Vith  eyes  of  licuvon's  blue. 
And  locks  that  o'er  her  shoulders  fell, 

Aaad  heart  that  promised  true  ; 
But  Mammon  wooed  with  coffers  bright, 

And  lioUow  words  of  pride  — 
Why  should  slie,  with  sucli  beauty. 

Become  a  poor  man's  bride  ? 


He  had  a  dajiplcd  coiu-ser, 
"With  proudly  arching  mane  ; 

It  should  be  hers,  and  she  should  guide 
It  with  a  silken  rein  ; 


I    WON    HER    HEART    IN    AUTUMN.  43 

While  in  the  light  her  spotless  brow 

With  costly  gems  should  burn, 
And  at  her  gate  the  menial 

Should  wait  for  her  return. 

The  harp,  and  iiute,  and  viol 

Should  to  her  haUs  belong, 
And  voices  from  beyond  the  sea 

Should  mingle  there  in  song. 
She  listened  ;  and  her  woman's  heart 

Could  keep  its  trust  no  more  ; 
She  could  not  wed  a  poar  man  — 

'Twas  vulgar  to  be  poor  ! 

The  leaves  again  are  crimson, 

The  honeysuckle  gone. 
And  she,  so  loved  and  lost,  is  by 

Her  dappled  coursers  drawn. 
But  on  her  cheek  the  faded  rose 

A  tale  hath  meekly  told, 
How  that  her  heart  is  breaking 

Beneath  its  silver  fold. 

And  is  it  thus  -«ith  woman  ? 

Is  human  love  so  nought, 
That  it  may  ever,  ever  be 

With  golden  bubbles  bought  ? 


^'^"•^^^^^tti 


-g 

44  THE    SOVL    OF    SONG.  \ 


Then  -what  are  life's  young  -v-isions  -worth,  / 

Their  piire,  unearthly  bliss,  J 

If  all  that  they  have  promised 
Mvist  fade  awav  to  this  r 


i 
J.   Q.  ^.   yiood. 


THE    SOUL    OF    SONG. 

O,  WHERE  resides  the  soul  of  song  ? 

Say,  where  may  it  be  found  ? 
Does  it  dweU  with  the  dancmg,  faixy  throng  ? 
Does  it  live  on  enchanted  ground  r 

Where  dwells  the  real  soul  of  song  ? 

Lives  it  in  polar  regions, 
AVhere  snows  remain  for  ages  long, 

Uniniiuenced  by  the  seasons  ? 

Or  lives  the  soxil  of  joyful  song 

In  the  burning  tropic  clime, 
Where  the  over-ilowcring  orange  grows, 

And  the  cluster-laden  vino  ? 

Lives  it  on  mountains,  bleak  and  wild, 
I  Ilira^i  towering  to  the  sky  ? 

I  Or  is  it  the  humble  valley's  diild, 

I  In  lowly  glens  to  lie  ? 


m- 
i 


THE    SOUL    OF    SONG.  45 

Does  it  live  in  the  bubbling  crystal  spring  — 
In  the  brooklet's  rippling  stream  ? 

Or  in  ocean's  unknown  regions  deep 
Do  its  peai-Iy  treasures  gleam  ? 

Is  it  borne  along  on  tlie  gentle  breeze, 

And  by  zephyrs  lulled  to  rest  ? 
Or  on  the  wliirlwind  does  it  ride, 

By  the  sprite  of  the  storm  caressed  ? 

Does  it  dwell  in  the  bright  and  gaudy  flower 

Of  the  prau-ie's  fertile  plain  ? 
Is  its  homo  in  the  gloomy  forest  deep  ? 

Do  we  seek  it  stUl  in  vain  ? 

The  soul  of  merry  song  doth  dwell 

In  all  tliis  httle  earth  ; 
'Twas  given  us  by  the  "  morning  stars  "  — 

"Tis  of  celestial  birth. 

The  little,  noisy,  mui-muring  stream 

Slugs  praises  as  it  flows  ; 
And  the  boundless  ocean  sings  a  song 

In  the  storm,  or  m  repose. 

The  feathered  warblers  of  the  wood 

Pour  forth,  iix  sweetest  strains. 
Songs  to  the  Author  of  all  good. 

Who  nought  has  made  in  vain. 


'B 


'46  CASUAL    COUNSEL. 

When  zephyrs  gently  move  the  leaves, 

Or  tempest  loudly  roars, 
The  soul  of  song  blends  every  sound, 

As  upward  liigh  it  soars. 

And,  O,  that  man  his  heart  niiglit  tune 
To  join  the  mighty  choii'. 

And  loudest  sing  the  praise  of  Ilim 
Whom  man  should  most  admire,  — 


That,  when  the  -world  has  pixssed  away. 

The  morning  stars  may  sing, 
As  they  retake  the  soul  of  song 
Which  soids  from  earth  may  bring. 

Effie  May,  {Rumncy.)         < 
I 


CASUAL    COUNSEL. 

•*  What  read'st  thou  there,  my  fair-haired  boy. 

With  eye  so  soft  imd  blue  ? 
What  spell  has  chilled  the  tide  of  joy, 

Whiih  late  thy  veins  ran  thiough  ?  " 
Up  looked  he  from  that  page  of  fear, 

(Sufh  (head  our  race  inherits,) 
And  spoke  tlu-  title,  low  but  ch-nr,  ? 

•'  The  world  of  Evil  Spirits."  \ 


CASUAL    COUXSEL.  47 

"  Hand  me  the  book,  my  gentle  friend, 

And  let  me  o'er  it  glance. 
Whilst  thou  a  patient  hearing  lend 

To  -what  I  may  advance. 
'  Spirits  of  Evil ! '  —  ah,  my  cliild  ! 

They  are  of  fearful  might : 
'Tis  well  thou  seek'st  to  shun  their  guile  ; 

Be  sure  thou  seek'st  aright ! 

"  '  De\Tls  ! '  —  Ah,  yes,  in  this  world  of  woe, 

They  tlirong  each  trodden  street. 
By  day,  by  night  —  where  the  lonely  go. 

Or  where  the  joyous  meet ; 
But  dread  them  not  in  shapes  like  this, 

Absurd,  —  grotesq^uc,  —  abhorred  ; 
Ah,  no  !  they  revel  in  forms  of  bliss, 

And  sliine  at  the  sparkling  board  ! 

"  In  glossy  stiit,  —  perchance  of  black, 

The  de^•il  is  oft  arrayed  ; 
"SMiile  the  dapper  boot  on  his  sinister  foot 

Does  honor  to  Crispin's  trade. 
Ah,  not  by  outward  shape  of  fear 

Is  the  cunning  dcvLl  shown  ; 
But  the  gamester's  ■\\-ile,  or  the  scoffer's  sneer, 

Shall  make  his  presence  known. 

"  '  Witches  !  "  Ah,  yes,  they,  too,  abound  ; 
Exit  ne'er  in  garb  like  this  ; 


48 


ORIGINAL    THINKING. 


They  rather  in  silks  than  rags  are  fovind, 
And  betray,  as  of  old,  -with  a  kiss. 

When  the  witch  looks  out  from  a  ■wanton's  eye, 
Or  up  from  the  ruby  bowl, 

Then,  if  thou  wouldst  not  to  virtue  die, 
Stand  firm  in  thy  strength  of  soul ! 

"  '  Ghosts  !  '  Ah,  my  cliild  !  dread  spectres  they 

That  tell  of  our  wasted  powers  ; 
The  sliort-lived  elves  of  Folly's  day  ; 

The  ghosts  of  our  miirderod  hoiu-s  ; 
Of  friendship  broken,  love  estranged  ; 

Of  all  that  our  hearts  condemn  ; 
Of  good  rei^eUcd  to  evil  changed  ; 

Beware,  my  boy,  of  them  !  " 

Horace  Qrecley. 


ORIGINAL    THINKING. 

>  Who  that  has  for  a  moment  exercised  liis  own  intcl- 

<  Icctual  powers  upon  any  given  subject  or  subjects, 

<  has   not   felt  that   he  has   a  living  jiriiiciplc  witliin, 
\  which,  if  stirred  to  the  fountain,  is  capable  of  bringing 

forth  from  the  laboratory  of  Ills  own  mind  thoughts 
tliat  would  sway  a  multitude  of  the  unthinking  ?  The 
unthinking,    did    I    say  ?     Are    there    human    beings, 


M 


5 
ORIGINAL     TUINKIXG.  49 


rational  and  accountable,  who  permit  to  lie  dormant 
the  highest  faculty  of  our  nature  —  thought  ?  Alas  ! 
do  -we  not  see  it  in  cvery-day  life  ?  —  men,  -whom  God 
has  endowed  with  reflecting  and  reasoning  powers, 
suffering  themselves  to  be  led  captive  by  the  aspiring 
ambition  of  some  awful  demagogue,  merely  because 
they  are  too  indolent  to  think  ;  allowing  their  moral 
powers  to  be  governed  and  directed,  indeed,  to  be  at 
the  sole  disposal  of  some  one  in  whom  they  have 
\  i^laced  confidence.  And  is  there  no  sin  in  thus  com- 
mitting  our  ways  to  another  ?  Our  talents  are  given 
us  to  improve  tUl  our  Lord  comes,  and  he  that  neg- 
lects, —  who  shall  say  to  him,  Not  guilty  ?  What  a 
visible  change  would  there  be  in  society,  if  one  and  all 
would  arouse  the  moral  energies  of  their  souls,  awake 
I  within  them  the  immortal  germ  of  thought,  and  in- 
j  cite  to  action  that  glorious  image  of  the  eternal  mind, 
i  which  has  been  suficrcd  so  long  to  remain  in  uncon- 
^     scions  repose  ! 

I  The  pleasure  of  thought  might  be  mentioned  as  an 
I  incitement  to  mental  application,  as  he,  who  has  toiled 
\  for  hours,  with  the  silence  of  his  own  thought,  would 
]  testify.  Note  the  ecstatic  joy  of  the  student,  who  has 
labored  long  over  a  problem  or  proposition,  but  finally 
comes  to  a  logical  conclusion  ;  who  has  struggled  Avith 
the  misty  darkness  of  his  own  mind,  for  a  clear  view 
of  some  difhciilt  subject,  until  the  clouds,  one  after 
another,    have   dispersed,    and  he   beholds,    with  his 


<       50  ORIGINAL    THINKIXO. 


;     mental  vision,  in  bright  and   glorious  light,  the  con- 

<  ception  for  ■which  he  labored.  Tliink  you  he  would 
5  exchange  his  joys  for  the  pleasures  of  sense  ?  It  is  of 
\  a  higher  and  more  ennobling  character,  and  not  to  be 
;.     bartered  for  paltry  worth. 

\  ^^'^lat  dignity  and  self-respect  invest  tlie  man  of 
]  thought  I  His  very  looks  bespeak  of  mind.  He  is 
f  approached  with  deference,  as  a  being  of  higher  order 
';  in  the  scale  of  intelligence  ;  as  one  who  has  a  right  to 
i     command  and  be  obeyed.     For  what  moves  mind,  but 

<  mind  ?  A  strong  intellect,  coming  in  contact  with  one 
\  of  less  energy,  Avill  as  natui-ally  move  it,  as  superior 
<:     physical  strength  will  overcome  the  weaker. 

\  Doth  it  not  become  mankind  to  arm  themselves 
J  with  the  panoply  of  thought,  to  exercise  the  mmd  — 
J  the  highest  gift  of  nature  with  -\\liich  we  are  endowed, 
i  and  which  is  to  continue  in  the  advanccnient  of  knowl- 
;     edge  throughout  eternity  r     "Would  that   all  might  so 

cultivate  and  improve  their  reasoning  and  reflecting 
I  faculties,  as  not  only  to  add  to  their  hap]>iues9  here, 
>  but  to  their  eternal  felicity  hereafter,  that  it  might  not 
^     be  said  of  any,   in  that  day  when   all  must  give  nn 

account,  that  they  had  neglected  to  improve  the  talent 

committed  to  their  cai'C  ! 

Caroline  Orne. 


n> 


i  LINES.  51       i 


LINES.  J 

O,  >YHO  tliat  has  gazed,  in  the  stilbiess  of  even,  I 

On  the  fast-facling  hues  of  the  -west,  J 

Has  seen  not  afar,  in  the  bosom  of  heaven,  I 

Sonic  bright  little  mansion  of  rest, 
And  mourned  that  the  path  to  a  region  so  fair 

Should  be  shrouded  with  sadness  and  fears ; 
That  the  night  winds  of  sorrow,  misfortune,  and  care, 
Should  sweep  fi'om  the  deep-rolling  waves  of  despair, 

To  darken  tliis  cold  world  of  tears  ? 


And  who  that  has  gazed  has  not  longed  for  the  hour 

When  misfortune  forever  shall  cease. 
And  hope,  lilcc  the  rainbow,  unfold,  through  the  shower. 

Her  bright- written  promise  of  peace  ?  '/ 

And  O,  if  that  rainbow  of  promise  may  shine  ,; 

On  the  last  scene  of  life's  wintry  gloom,  > 

^lay  its  light  in  the  moment  of  parting  be  mine ; 
I  ask  but  one  ray  from  a  source  so  divine, 

To  brighten  the  vale  of  the  tomb. 

Oliver  TV.  B.  Peahody. 


i  i 

J       52  TO    THE    MEliaiMACK    RIVER.  < 


TO    THE    MERRIMACK    RIVER, 

A  T    T  H  E    F  A  L  I,  S    OF    TUB    A  M  -  A  U  II  -  X  O  U  R -  S  K  E  A  Q  . 

Roll  on,  bright  stream  ! 
And  ever  thus,  from  earliest  time,  thoii'st  leaped 
And  played  amid  these  caverncd,  sonndiuu;  rocks, 
When  the  long  summer's  sun  hath  tamed  thy  power 
To  gentleness  ;  or,  roused  from  thy  long  sleep. 
Hast  cast  thy  A\'intry  fetters  off,  and  swc^jt. 
In  wild,  tumultuous  rage,  along  thy  course, 
FUnging  the  ■white  foam  high  from  out  thy  path, 

And  shaking  to  thcii-  very  centre  cju'th's 

< 
Foundation  stones.  \ 

s 

And  in  thine  awful  might, 
"When  tentH'  ridt-'s  thy  wildly-lieaving  wave 
Or  in  thy  soft  and  gentle  flow,  when  break 
The  ripples  on  thy  sandy  shore,  in  sweet,  , 

Delicious  music,  as  of  fairy  bell-;,  \ 

\     How  beautiful  art  tliou  !  ■ 

And,  since  that  fiist 
Glad  hour,  when  morning  stars  together  sang, 

k --^•.--.^ ->..--. — mi 


- — sa 

TO   THE    MERllIJIACK  RIVER.  53       \ 

} 

Each  rising  sun,  Avith  dcwj'  eye,  hath  looked  •> 

On  thee.     Each  full-orbed  moon  hath  smiled  to  see  < 

Herself  tliroAvn  back  in  pencilled  loveliness,  > 

Mirrored  a  mimic  disk  of  liorht,  beneath  <' 

Thy  pure  anc^  limpid  wave,  or  broken  else  s 

Into  a  myriad  crystal  gems,  flung  high,  ] 

In  sjjarkling  jets  or  gilded  spray,  towards  heaven.  < 


And  long  ere  on  thy  shores  the  white  man  trod, 
Aaid  wove  the  magic  chain  of  hiiman  will 
Around  thy  free  and  graceful  flood,  and  tamed 
Its  power  to  minister  to  human  good. 
The  Indian  roamed  along  thy  wooded  banks. 
And  Kstened  to  thy  mighty  voice  with  awe. 
He,  too,  untutored  in  the  schoolman's  lore. 
And  couA'-crsant  Avith  Nature's  works  alone. 
More  deep,  true,  reverent  Avorship  paid  to  thee 
Than  does  his  fclloAV-man,  Avho  boasts  a  faith 
More  pure,  an  aun  more  high,  a  nobler  hope  — 
Yet,  in  his  soiil,  is  filled  Avith  earth-born  lusts. 

The  Indian  loved  thee  as  a  gift  divir.o 
To  him  thou  fiow'dst  from  the  blest  land  that  smiled 
Behind  the  sunset  hiUs  —  the  Indian  heaven, 
Where,  on  bright  plains,  eternal  sunlight  fell. 
And  bathed  in  gold  the  hills,  and  dells,  and  Avoods, 
Of  the  blest  hunting-grounds.     With  joy  he  drcAV 
The  fimiy  stores  from  out  thy  swarming  depths, 


5* 


54  TO   THE   MEllRIMACK   mVEIl. 

Or  floated  o'er  thcc  in  his  light  canoe, 
And  blessed  the  kindly  hand  that  gave  him  thcc, 
A  never-failing  good,  a  fount  of  life 
And  blessing  to  his  race.     And  thou  to  him 
Didst  image  forth  the  crystal  stremn  that  flows 
From  "  out  the  throne  of  God  and  of  the  Lamb," 
The  Christian's  "  water  of  the  life  divine." 
Thy  source  was  in  the  sijirit-peopled  clouds, 
I     And  to  his  untaught  fancy  thou  didst  spring 
J     Fresh  £i-om  Maiiitou's  hands  —  tlio  o'erfloA\-ing  hand 
I     From  -which  all  blessing  comes,  alike  to  him 
I     Whose  teaching  comes  from  rude,  material  tilings, 

>  Who  worsliips  'ncath  the  clcai'  blue  dome  of  heaven, 

>  As  liim  -who  in  a  sculptured  temple  prays. 

i     And  tliou,  bright  river,  in  thy  ceaseless  flow. 

Hast  mirrored  many  a  passing  scene  would  charm 
The  painter's  eye,  would  Arc  the  poet's  soul ; 
For  beauty  of  tlic  wild,  fr-ce  wood  and  floods 
Is  yet  more  beautiful  when  far  removed 
From  the  loud  din  of  toil,  that  e'er  attends 
The  civilizing  marcli  of  Saxon  blood. 
And  poetry,  unversed  indeed,  and  rude. 
But  full  of  soul-wrought,  thrilling  harmony, 
Ilath  spoken  in  tliy  imirniur  or  thy  roar  ; 
I     And  huninn  hearts,  tlirough  long,  swift-gliding  years, 
i     Have  made  the  valley  thou  linst  blessed  their  home, 
I     AN'herc  they  have  lived,  and  loved,  and  joyed,  and  hoped,     \ 


<  TO   THE  MERRIMACK   RIVER.  55      ^ 


Nay,  passed  through,  all  that  makes  the  sum  of  life, 
Of  human  life,  in  every  clime  and  age. 

Along  thy  shaded  banks,  in  grim  array, 

Wild  bands  of  "braves,"  as  fearless  and  as  true 

As  ever  sought  a  deadly  foeman's  blade, 

Or  battled  nobly  in  a  country's  cause, 

AVith  step  as  silent  as  the  grave,  have  sped, 

In  lengthened  files,  to  strife,  and  blood,  and  death. 

In  that  SAveet  dell,  -where  giant  trees  o'crhang 
Thy  soft,  encircling  wave,  the  council-fires 
Have  blazed.     There  silent,  stern,  grave-visaged  men 
Have  sat  the  magic  circle  round,  and  smoked 
The  calumet  of  i^cace  ;  or  youths,  in  wild 
Exciting  dance,  AA-ith  battle  songs  and  sliouts. 
With  flashing  arms,  and  well-feigned,  earnest  strife, 
Have  acted  the  sad  mimicry  of  war. 

To  yonder  sheltered  nook,  where,  still  and  calm, 
The  chafed  and  wearied  waters  rest  a  while 
Behind  a  rocky  point,  on  wliich  the  waves 
Break  ever,  with  a  music  soft  and  sweet. 
And  'neath  the  shadows  of  tall,  sighing  pines. 
That,  in  the  fiercest  noon,  create  a  soft. 
Cool,  cloistered  light  upon  the  sward  beneath. 
The  dusky  brave,  fierce  now  no  more,  hath  stolen 
Oft  at  the  twilight  hour,  and  when  the  young 
New  moon  hath  tipped  with  silver  bough,  and  rock, 


56  TO  THE   MEBRIMACK   RIVEE. 

And  -wave,  to  mnrmur  into  willing  cars 
Love's  w-itching  story,  told  full  oft,  yet  new 
As  when  'twas  whiskered  in  fair  Eden's  bowers. 

Sweet  ^Mei-rimack  I     For  ages  thus  the  stream 
Of  human  life  ran  on  -n-ith  thine,  yet  not 
As  thine ;  for  thou  art  as  thou  wast  of  old, 
"When  first  the  Indian  chased  along  thy  banks. 
But  where  is  now  the  red  man,  true  and  brave  r 

Alas  I  where  once  the  child  of  nature  trod, 

Unquestioned  monarch  of  the  land  and  wave, 

The  many-towered,  busy  city  stands  ! 

Hills  that  threw  back  the  war-whoop's  fearful  peal, 

"\i\Tien  filled  was  this  fair  vale  with  sounds  of  strife, 

Xow  echo  to  the  engine's  shriller  scream, 

As  swift  and  strong  it  flies,  with  goodly  freight 

Of  life  and  merchandise  ! 

By  thy  fair  stream 
The  red  man  roams  no  more.     No  more  he  snares 
The  artful  trout,  or  lordly  salmon  spears  ; 

I    No  more  his  swift--\Wngetl  arrow  strikes  the  deer. 

I    Towards  the  setting  sun,  with  faltering  limb 
And  glaring  eve,  he  seeks  a  distant  home, 
"Where  withering  foot  of  white  man  ne'er  can  come. 

And  thy  wild  water,  Merrimack,  is  tamed. 

And  bound  in  servile  chauis  which  mind  has  forged 


/ 


\  ABOCT  XAMES.  <7      \ 

To  bind  the  stnbbom  cartlt,  the  frcc-wing ed  air,  '' 

The  heai'ing  ocean,  and  the  ruKhing  Ktream,  | 

Th'  obedient  iicnrant«  of  a  mi^itier  will,  \ 

E'en  a«  a  Kjiint  caught  in  earth-bom  toil*,  | 

At  Icgcndx  toll,  and  doomed  to  slave  for  him  i 

Who  holxLi  the  strong,  m}'«tcriouii  bond  of  power.  \ 

And  thou  art  now  the  wild,  free  stream  no  more,  \ 

Playing  all  idljr  in  thy  channels  old ;  > 

Thy  days  of  sporttre  beauty  and  romance 
Arc  gone.    Yet,  harnessed  to  thy  daily  toil. 
And  all  thypowerw  controlled  by  giant  mind. 
And  right  dirccUd,  thou'rt  a  spirit  Btill, 
And  workcst  mightily  for  human  good. 
Changing,  in  thine  abundant  alchemy. 

All  baser  things  to  gold. 

ThatdAfTt  BtutOt,  jMimfkfiter.) 


ABOUT   NAMES. 


I  AX  iiiclined  to  be  of  the  opinion  that  women  may  | 

be  cJasnAed  by  thdr  names,  certain  names  being  sng-  $ 

gcsttre  of  peculiar  traits  of  character.      Mlio  exet  '' 

knew  of  a  Lucy  wlio  was  not  timid  and  dependent  ?  '» 

The  name  itadf  has  a  gende  sound,  and  moumfiil,  | 


58  ABOUT  NAMES. 

now,  as  I  recall  the  sad  talc  of  the  sweet  Bride  of  Lam- 
memioor. 

Catharine  has  been  illustrious  through  centuries  of 
history  —  the  favorite  appellation  of  the  proud  daugh- 
ters of  Braganza  and  Aragon  —  borne  by  the  queen  con- 
sorts of  Great  Britain — honored  by  the  Livonian 
peasant  girl  Avho  shared  the  hcai-t  and  throne  of  a  Rus- 
sian czar.  Then  we  have  the  stately  Cathaiines  who 
move  in  royal  procession  on  Shakspearc's  page,  and 
"  plain  Kate,  and  bonny  Kate,  and  somctunes  Kate  the 
curst;"  and  roguish  Kate — poor  lloland  Grime's 
bewildering  love ;  and  Luther's  Catharine,  and  the 
painted  Blake's  warm-hearted  Kate. 

Kate  is  the  giid,  capricious,  and  half  a  coquette, 
calmed  to  the  more  elegant  Catharine  in  her  perfect 
womanhood  —  superb  then  as  a  crowned  queen,  scorn- 
ing insults,  quick  in  resentment,  but  loving  unto  death. 
Jane  is  quiet  and  detennined,  with  a  strong,  ener- 
getic will,  "  cfjiial  to  any  fate." 

Julia  is  piquant,  shrewd,  saucy,  bright-eyed,  and  beau- 
tiful. Claiming  close  relationship  to  Julia  in  mischief- 
making  comes  liizzie,  quite  as  roguish,  a  merry,  rosy- 
cheeked  girl,  with  abundance  of  glossy,  dark  curls,  and 
/  a  foot  that  falls  "  as  lightlv  as  a  sunbeam  on  the  water." 
l  Unliltc  these,  never  mirthful,  never  trivial,  is  Marga- 
I  ret,  with  a  sweet  tracery  of  beauty  in  every  lineament 
'     of  her  serious  face.     Her  clear  eye  burns,  as  with  :  ome 

/     hidden  fire,  —  her  chock   is  of  marble  paleness,  —  lior 
> 


ABOUT   NAMES.  59 

brow,  too  lofty  for  feminine  loveliness,  is  radiant  with 
intellect. 

"  Nor  look,  nor  tone,  revealeth  aught 

Save  woman's  quietness  of  thought ; 

And  yet  around  her  is  the  light 

Of  inward  majesty  and  might." 

She  might  be  a  tragic  queen  —  a  Siddons  —  a  Rachel 
—  a  Joan  of  Arc  —  or,  as  she  was,  in  pride,  and  mag- 
nanimity, and  misfortune,  the  thrice  regal  princess  of 
Anjou.  ! 

In  the  symbolical  language  of  the  Hebrews,  the  word 
Hannah  means,  "  one  Avho  gives."  I  once  heard  of 
a  Hannah  who  was  called  a  coquette  ;  but  it  must  have 
been  a  mistake.  She  is  just  the  right  woman  "  to  go 
hand  in  hand  with,  through  the  every- day-ness  of  this 
'/  work-day  world."  [Perhaps  I  have  not  quoted  quite 
'     correctly,  but  no  matter.] 

]  Alice  is  like  a  "  dream  of  poetry."  How  beautiful 
(  the  name  is  —  a  good  old  English  name,  borne  by  the 
5  fair  Saxon  maidens  in  the  olden  time,  and  graced  now 
'  by  many  a  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  girl.  It  is  fra- 
>     grant   of  sweet-brier  waDcs,    and  tangled  copsewood, 


t 


i 


',     sacred  to  tender  memories  in  the  gentle  heart  of  Charles 
^     Lamb.     Wc  can  hardly  think  of  plain  Alice,  or  way- 


and  all  the  scenes  of  \ 

"  The  wanderings  with  a  fair-haired  maid."  \ 

Was  not  her  name  Alice  ?     I  think  it  was,  Alice  N , 


60  AliOrX   NAMES. 

■ward  Alice.     It  -woTild  be  like  sweet  bells  jangled  and    ) 
out  of  tune.     It  should  be  fair  Alice,  or  bonny  Alice  — 
always  a  winsome,  blue-eyed  girl. 

Some  one  lias  said  that  the  best  welcome  ui  the 
Avorld  is  the  frank  "How  are  you  ?  "  of  an  Irish  girl. 
Just  such  a  welcome  A^ould  Ellen  give  you  —  a  cordial  / 
"How  arc  you  ?  "  at  meeting,  and  a  warm  "  God  bless  < 
you  I  "  at  parting.  I  like  Ellen  for  that  —  her  joyous  / 
voice  —  her  merry  smile  —  her  dancing  eye  —  her  j 
ringing  laugh,  —  not  always  a  musical  laugh,  iierhaps, 
but  glad  and  free  as  the  ripple  of  a  brook,  or  the  song 
of  a  bird. 

Cold  and  calm,  icy  cold  and  marble  calm,  is  Caro- 
line. One  can  hardly  think  of  a  Caroline  who  has  not 
a  striking  dignity  of  character  and  manners  —  self- 
(  possession  in  every  motion  —  the  seeming  conscioxis- 
\  ness  of  grace  and  majesty  innate.  Slie  sets  a  high 
i  value  upon  herself,  and  passes  at  that  valuation. 
J  The  name  Sarah  means  "  princess,"  aiid  princess-like 
/  women  wear  it  as  proudly  as  a  countess  might  wear 
I     her  coronet. 

I  One  of  the  loveliest  among  women,  formed  for  nil 
I  hoiisehold  viitues,  Imogen  in  her  fidelity,  Dcsdemona  in 
>     her  gentleness,  is  Marinnna. 

J  [Maria  —  how  can  I  describe  Maria?  How  noble 
'  that  name  appears  in  history,  immortal  througli  her 
'     for  whom  the  gnlhmt  Ilim^iuiims  swore,  ns  they  j>lai'od 


the  iron  crown  of  the  Lombard  king.s  upon  her  slender 


ABOUT   NAMES. 


61 


head,  "  We  will  die  for  our  king,  Maria  Theresa !  " 
And  Roland's  glorioiis  wife  —  that  woman  who  stood 
calm,  majestic  in  the  wild  tumult  of  volcanic  France  — 
"  serenely  complete,  Uke  a  white  Grecian  statue  amid 
that  black  wreck  of  night !  "  There  was  but  one  Mad- 
ame Roland,  as  there  was  but  one  Josephine. 

For  all  to  whom  the  blessed  name  of  Mary  is  a 
household  word,  let  me  quote  their  portrait  of  a  iireside 
idol  —  darling  Mary  :  — 

"  Let  her  be  full  of  quiet  grace, 
Not  sparkling  with  a  sudden  glow, 
Brightening  her  purely  chiselled  face 

And  placid  brow ; 
Not  radiant  to  the  strangcr''»  eye  — 
A  creature  easily  passed  by  ;  — 

"  But  who,  once  seen,  with  untold  power 
Forever  haunts  the  yearning  heart. 
Raised  from  the  crowd  that  self-same  hour 

To  dwell  apart, 
All  sainted  and  enshrined,  to  be 
The  idol  of  our  memory. 

"  And  O,  let  Mary  be  her  name  ; 

It  hath  a  sweet  and  gentle  sound, 

At  which  no  glories  dear  to  fame 

Come  crowding  round, 

But  which  the  dreaming  heart  beguiles 

With  holy  thoughts  and  household  smiles." 

Ina. 


H- 


'!a 


BRIDAL    WISHES. 


He.wtex  bless  thy  gentle  bride, 
Bless  the  husband  at  her  side  — 
May  your  paths  through  life  be  free 
From  all  that's  woe  to  her  and  thee. 
The  joys  to  others  ye  bestow. 
In  thine  o^\^l  home  may  ye  e'er  know  ; 
Such  pleasures  in  your  bosoms  live, 
As  ye  to  others  often  give. 
Trials  meet  -v^•itll  chastened  grace  ; 
Look  them  calmly  in  the  face ; 
Angels'  wmgs  you'U  see  unfurled, 
They  are  from  that  better  world  ; 
On  their  pinions,  far  away. 
To  the  realms  of  nightless  day, 
Tliey  will  bear  your  souls  away. 
Oft,  at  nightfall,  angels  come 
To  the  still,  secluded  home, 
Clad  in  human  wanderers'  guise. 
Blessing  with  a  glad  surprise, 
When  the  morrow's  sun  shall  rise, 
And  tlic  licart  that's  open  e'er 
To  the  passing  traveller. 


woman's  love.  63 

"Welcoming  the  wronged  and  lone, 
Taking  iji  the  sorrowing  one, 
Giying  hope  and  sympathy 
With  its  boundless  charity, 
Oft  will  find  good  angels  stay, 
Guard  them  to  the  coming  day  ; 
Watching  through  each  dangerous  night, 
TiU  the  morrow  daA^aieth  bright. 
To  such  angels,  now,  my  friends, 
Thee  and  tliine  my  heart  commends. 

Harriet  Farley,  {Lomell,  1849.) 


WOMAN'S    LOVE. 

0,  IF  there  be,  'mid  aU  life's  hoUo-svness, 

Its  cold,  unreal  seeming,  one  piu-o  spell. 

Making  of  chaos,  beauty,  —  weakness,  strength,  — 

One  fount  of  freshest  feeling,  one  bright  hue 

Dropped  from  the  -swing  of  angel  Innocence 

In  her  sad  flight  fi-om  Eden  to  the  skies,  — 

'Tis  wo7nan's  love.     What  is.  there  else  on  earth. 

What  thing  beside,  so  frail  and  vet  so  stroucr. 

Whose  very  might  is  tears  ?    or  what  beside 

Whose  treasured  wealth  is  one  low-whispered  tone  ? 


-a 


64  woman's    LOVli. 

The  fresh  awakening  rose-bud  may  enclose 
How  much  of  rarest  odor  in  its  cup, 
Ere  the  light  zephjT  spirit's  wooing  v/ing 
Invade  its  dainty  portals,  bciuing  thence 
A  world  of  breathing  beauty  and  fau  hues ; 
E'en  thus  with  woman's  heart,  —  its  deep  repose 
Is  full  of  calmness,  and  the  dreamer  sighs, 
O'crburdcncd  with  the  marble  quietude 
Of  feeling  unawakcncd  ;  but  the  gleams 
Of  nobler  being,  and  the  unwrit  lore 
That  love  brings  with  it,  these  ai-e  absent  there. 
'Tis  but  when  the  pure  faith  that  sees  in  time 
Its  livelong  joy,  in  death  but  second  birth, 
Doth  inly  fold  its  wing,  that  woman's  heart, 
As  'twere  an  angel's  mission,  pom-eth  forth 
Its  hoarded  sweetness,  oft,  alas  !  on  air. 

Power,  f:nnc,  dominion,  and  tlie  gleam  of  gold, 
Tlie  pomp,  the  pride  of  splendor,  these  are  man's  ; 
Only  one  lonely  breath  of  tenderness 
Floats  tlirougli  liis  spirit  'mid  the  din  of  all ; 
But  mightiest  'mid  the  niighty,  swaying  scorn 
And  pride  before  it  like  a  wind-swept  reed  ! 
Eor  love,  O,  love  is  woman's :  gave  oarth.  none, 
No  otlicr  seal  of  beauty  to  her  brow, 
No  gii't  to  make  her  equal  with  her  lord, 
Eove  were  alone  suflicicnt  in  itself, 
Outweighing  all  beside  ! 


ss^ 


i  THE    STEANGER    MAIDEX'S    DEATH.  00       i 


THE    STRANGER    MAIDEN'S    DEATH. 

She  -vvas  an  humble  maiden,  and  —  she  died. 
This  is  her  history.     The  pomp  of  pride,  — 
A  toAvering  intellect,  —  ambition's  strife,  — 
Appear  not  in  the  annals  of  her  life. 
She  -was  an  hiimble  maiden,  and  her  home 
Was  far  away,  •where  fragrant  breezes  come 
From  waving  cornfields ;  pastures  broad  and  fail'. 
And  boundless  forests,  proudly  stretchmg  there. 
Compassed  the  simple  "  house  where  she  was  bora ; 
And  pleasantly,  as  oped  each  joyous  morn. 
The  lowmg  liinc,  and  lambkins  bleating  near, 
Sent  their  accustomed  voices  to  her  ear. 
Here  long  her  childish  footsteps  gayly  roved  ; 
This  was  her  happiness,  —  she  lived  and  loved. 

But  from  the  distant  city,  rumors  flew 

Of  other  scenes ;  and  o'er  her  dazzled  view 


6* 


There  is  no  flame. 

Lured  torn  heaven's  altar  to  the  human  breast, 

No  vestal  lamp,  whose  fragrant  oil  burns  on  5 

Through  dark  despaLr  and  sorrow's  blackest  night,  / 

Kept  pure  and  queneliless  still,  save  woman's  love  !  ! 

Joanna.  > 

? 


i       66  THE    STRAXGEE    MAIDEN'S    DEATH. 

j     Danced  beaming  phantoms,  gay  and  golden  drean-is, 
^     Illumed  by  fancy's  bright,  deceitful  gleams.  > 

She  left  her  home,  and  here  she  trod  a  -svliile  i 

The  beaten  path  of  labor  ;  and  a  smile  \ 

Glowed  on  her  cheek,  and  sparkled  in  her  eye  ;  s 

Her  hands  their  daily  task  ■v\T0Ught  willingly. 
Of  care  and  pain  she  lightly  bore  her  share. 
For  youth  and  health  are  buoyant  every  where. 
Not  long  she  labored  thus,  —  for  sickness  came, 
"Weakening  the  vigor  of  her  youthfiil  frame. 
Until,  as  'ncath  the  tempest  suiks  the  flower, 
She  prostrate  lay  bcneatli  his  tyrant  power. 

Sick,  and  alone,  'mid  strangers  !  —  O,  the  thouglit 

Comes  to  the  heart  ^^-ith  threefold  anguish  frausht. 

How  can  a  stranger  catch  the  gentle  tone 

AMth  A\  liich  a  mother  greets  her  drooping  one  : 

Or  borrow  from  a  sister's  love-lit  eye 

The  soothing  light  of  blessed  sj-mpathy  ? 

O  Love,  and  Home  !  ye  ai'e  the  cordials  best 

To  j-icld  the  weary  suftVrcr  healing  rest. 

They  bore  her  to  a  kindly  shelter,  where 

The  sickened  stranger  meets  luiwearied  care  ; 
<     And  there,  retired  from  all  distracting  noise, 
i     In  dreams  returned  again  her  childhood's  joys. 

She  traced  the  wildwood  footpaths  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  crossed  the  tlu-csliold  of  her  cottage  door  ; 

Tlicn  ruslu'd  her  loved  ones"  fond  embrace  to  meet  — 


m~ 


THE    SXnANGER    MAIDEN'S    DEATH.  67 

"WTiy  tell  the  tale  ?  —  her  blessings  seemed  complete. 
Those  di-eams  were  short  —  too  short  !    She  woke  again, 
To  feel  the  Aveight  of  weariness  and  pain, 
To  see  Hope's  torch,  just  lit  by  Fancy's  ray, 
BloAvn  rudely  out,  and  darkened  all  her  way. 
She  woke  to  hear,  half-drowned  with  pity's  sigh, 
The  dreadful  whisper,  "Maiden,  thou  must  die  !  " 

Stunned  as  by  heaven's  red  bolt,  a  while  she  lay. 
Struggling  'neath  speechless,  miglity  agony. 
Such  agony  as  hers  what  words  could  tell  ? 
At  length  her  ntu-se,  who,  tenderly  and  well, 
With  kindest  care,  had  softened  every  pain. 
And  sought  the  sufferer's  ease  and  health  in  vam. 
She  beckoned  to  her  side,  and  faintly  said, 
"  I  may  not  conquer  quite  tliis  inward  dread; 
I  cannot  die  !     O,  I  have  loved  so  well, 
And  stm  do  love,  I  cannot  say  farewell 
To  aU  the  cherished  idols  of  my  heart ! 
^lother  !  O  mother  !  how  can  I  depart 
To  the  cold  grave  mthout  beholding  thee, 
And  aU  I  love  ?     O,  no  !  it  must  not  be  ! 
Sweet  nurse,  to  me  some  blest  elixir  give. 
Whose  power  can  make  this  sinking  frame  revive. 
And  bid  disease,  and  pain,  and  languor  fly ; 
O,  give  me  this,  —  and  say  I  shall  not  die  !  " 

The  last  faint  echoes  of  her  voice  still  run" 
Upon  their  cars,  as  o'er  her  couch  they  hung. 


> 


68 


ALTONOCK. 


-^-isi 


She  looked  imploringly,  but  no  relief 
Of  eai'tlily  source  could  now  assuage  her  grief ; 
Her  eye  grew  dull  and  fixed,  and  pale  her  brow, 
'     So  pale  —  but  hush  !  she  smgs  in  glory  now  ! 


ALTONOCK. 


IIoAv  beautiful  is  the  closing  even, 

When  the  day- god  hath  sunk  to  rest,  and  left 

Upon  the  enchanted  heavens  a  glow 

So  rich,  so  purely  beautiful,  that  earth 

Seems  lapsing  'pon  the  land  of  blessedness  ! 


'Twas  thus  when  Altonock,  Choctaw's  chief, 
With  an  eagle's  pinion  firmly  braided 
In  his  scattered  locks,  and  loosely  girdled 
With  a  belt  of  leopard's  skin,  bowed  ■^^■ith  age, 
Went  forth  from  among  his  hapless  tribe 
Unto  the  banks  of  the  limpid  Homah, 
That  he  might  unbosom  to  the  (ircat  Spii-it 
The  sore  trouble  that  preyed  upon  his  soul. 
And  implore  for  his  aistressed  people 
A  refuge  from  Ihvir  relentless  foe, 
And  tlie  spirit  light,  to  guide  on  their  way 
His  weak  and  faltering  steps,  unto  that  land 


ALTONOCK.  69 

'S\Tiere  silvery  lakes  and  lucid  rivers, 
Pure,  and  clear,  and  beautiful,  fanned  by  airs 
Of  Eden,  sleep  in  flowery  lawns,  or  wind 
Through  dx-camy  meadows  of  aiiy  softness, 
And  unfading  verdure,  where  his  fathers  dAvclt. 
Altonock  had  two  sons  ;  they  fought  bravely  ; 
They  fell  in  blood  by  liis  side  in  battle. 
He  moiirnc:!  three  days,  and  returned  to  the  war. 
Then  he  had  no  comfort  but  Sunnyeye, 
The  child  of  his  age.    She  was  all  his  life. 
Her  smile  vi-as  like  moonbeams,  her  step 
Lilie  the  breeze  of  morn  upon  the  flower. 
She  played  round  his  tent  fires,  and  sported 
With  the  young  fa-wTi.     She  was  all  gentleness  — 
Her  heart  was  good.    She  was  a  light,  beaming 
In  the  path  of  Altonock  —  joy  was  his. 
But  a  dark  cloud  hath  passed  over  the  star  ; 
The  soft  tendrils  of  the  vine  have  been  riven 
From  the  old  oak  ;  Sunnyeye  hath  gone 
Away,  and  ^Utonock  knows  not  whither. 
Seven  moons  have  waned  since  he  left  Ms  tent, 
When  the  sun  rose,  and  her  eyes  followed  him 
From  the  hill  side  to  the  little  deer  lick  ; 
And  her  voice  echoed  from  the  Homah, 
For  him  to  "  stay  not  long  from  Sunnyeye." 
The  sun  set,  and  he  returned  fr-om  the  chase. 
But  she  came  not  o'er  the  hill  to  meet  him. 
Her  voice  was  not  on  the  breeze  ;  she  was  gone. 


70  ALTOXOCK. 

"  Spirit,  thy  home  is  among  the  bright  stars  ; 
Is  she  not  there  r     Bring  her  to  Altonock, 
Or  take  him  hence." 

The  angel  was  wordless. 
He  cast  upon  the  aged  -warrior  a  look 
That  was  all  of  heaven ;  then,  tvirning  from  him, 
Spread  his  broad  pinions  and  clove  the  thia  air  ; 
And,  as  he  mounted  the  clear  ujiper  sky, 
His  burnished  wings  tlu'cw  a  radiance 
Over  the  vale  of  night. 

The  moon  Avas  up  ; 
Her  pale  beam  played  upon  the  waters  ; 
And  as  the  still  wave  crept  silently  on. 
Unnoticed  by  the  bowed  and  jjeusive  chief, 
A  gentle  bark  came  gliding  down  the  stream. 
The  dip  of  a  light  oar  roused  the  sachem 
From  his  revery,  till  he  straightened  up 
And  stood  in  the  attitude  of  battle  ; 
And  as  tlie  light  keel  pressed  upon  the  strand. 
An  angel  form  darted  upon  tlie  shore, 
And  the  gentle  Sunnyeye  was  folded 
In  the  arms  of  the  enraptured  warrior. 

Escaped  from  the  wily  (Jhcrokccs,  who, 
From  her  home,  had  illudcd  her  away. 
She  loosed  the  sachem's  pirogue,  and  gliiling 
Upon  the  stream,  floated  down  the  far  rounding 
Of  llu-  river,  to  licr  own  bayou  liome. 

Dacid  Qilchrist. 


STAXZAS.  71 


STANZAS. 

0,  "WHY  should  we  ever  be  sad, 

When  with  pleasure  all  natiu'C  is  beaming  ? 
The  birds  and  the  flowerets  are  glad, 

And  the  sunlight  is  joyously  streaming. 
The  vale  and  the  stream  wear  a  smile, 

The  soft  summer  clouds  gaze  so  brightly, 
And  the  zephyrs  laugh  merrily,  while 

They  dance  through  the  forest  boughs  lightly. 

Then  why  should  we  ever  be  sad. 

When  the  circle  is  glowing  with  pleasure  ? 
'Tis  surely  worth  wliile  to  be  glad, 

Or  nature  could  deem  it  no  treasure. 
This  world  is  a  beautiful  world, 

And  our  spirits  should  muTor  its  beauty  ; 
Love's  banner  witliin  us  unfurled. 

With  ardor  will  cheer  to  our  duty, 

A  glance  from  a  love-lighted  eye, 

A  smile  ever  placid  and  cheerful. 
Will  make  every  dull  shadow  fly 

From  the  orbs  that  were  saddened  and  tearful. 


[a]- 


72 


CAX    I    FOEGET    THEE  ? 


Blithe  words  have  a  magical  power 

To  subdue  in  the  heart  care's  dominion  ; 

111  temper  may  triumph  an  hour, 

Then  conquered,  she'll  spread  her  black  pinion. 

'Twcrc  jilcasant,  if  only  by  name, 

We  mortals  knew  trouble  and  sorrow  ; 
But  life  is  not  always  the  same, 

And  a  bright  eve  may  bring  a  dai'k  morrow. 
Yet,  since  changes  must  ever  betide, 

j\jid  from  darkness  there  is  no  protection, 
We  will  look  on  the  sunniest  side, 

And  our  faces  will  bear-  its  reflection. 

L.  L. 


CAN    I    FORGET    T  11  E  E  ? 


Can  the  sun  forget  his  rising? 

Or  the  moon  her  silver  ray  ? 
Can  the  bii'ds  forget  their  jiraising  ? 

Can  the  wheels  of  time  delay  r 
Can  deatli  forget  the  rending 

Of  hearts,  with  murderous  hands  ? 
Can  angels  cease  descending. 

To  nccomplisli  (Jod's  commands  ? 

Then  may  all  else  forgotten  be, 

But,  Carra,  Til  f(n-;;i't  not  thee. 


ti< 


I    LIVE    TO    LOVE.  73 

Should  I  think  to  breathe  a  prayer 
For  the  suffering  every  where  ? 
Should  I  think  to  shed  a  tear 
'Side  a  mother's  lonely  bier  ? 
"Would  sink  my  soul  in  sadness  ? 
Or  sweU  my  heart  in  gladness  r 
Should  I  think  to  rest  at  even  ? 
Should  I  think  of  God  in  Heaven  ? 
Then  cherished  deep  in  memory, 
Dear  Carra,  should  I  think  of  thee. 

Carolas. 


I    LIVE    TO    LOVE. 

"  I  LIVE  to  love,"  said  a  laughing  girl. 
And  she  playfully  tossed  each  flaxen  curl. 
As  she  climbed  on  her  loving  father's  knee. 
And  snatched  a  kiss  in  her  childish  glee. 

"  I  live  to  love,"  said  a  maiden  fair, 
As  she  t-«ined  a  wreath  for  her  sister's  hair ; 
They  were  bound  by  the  cords  of  love  together, 
And  death  alone  could  those  sisters  sever. 

"  I  live  to  love,"  said  a  gay  young  bride. 
Her  loved  one  standing  by  her  side  ; 
Her  life  told  again  what  her  lips  had  spoken. 
And  ne'er  was  the  link  of  affection  broken. 


\       74  I    LOVE    TO    LIVE. 

"  I  live  to  love,"  said  a  mother  kind  — 
"  I  would  live  a  gixide  to  the  infant  mind." 
Her  precepts  and  example  given, 
Guided  her  childi'en  home  to  heaven. 

"  I  shall  live  to  love,"  said  a  fading  form, 
And  her  eye  was  bright,  and  her  cheek  grew  warm, 
As  she  thought  in  the  blissful  world  on  high 
She  would  live  to  love,  and  never  die. 

And  ever  thus  in  this  lower  worlc' 

Should  the  banner  of  Love  be  wide  unfurled  ; 

And  when  we  meet  in  the  world  above. 

May  we  love  to  live,  and  live  to  love  ! 

Effie  May, 


I    LOVE    TO    LIVE. 

"  I  LOVE  to  Hve,"  said  a  prattling  boy. 
As  he  gayly  played  with  Ids  new-bought  toy. 
And  a  merry  laugh  went  echoing  forth 
From  a  bosom  filled  with  joyous  mirtli. 

"I  love  to  live,"  said  a  stripling  bold  — 
"  I  will  seek  for  fame  —  I  will  toil  for  gold  ;  " 
And  he  formed  in  his  leisure  many  a  plan 
To  be  cairicd  out  when  he  grew  a  man. 


m- 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    IDEAL.  75 

"  I  love  to  live,"  said  a  lover  true  — 
"  O  gentle  maid  !    I  would  live  for  you  ; 
I  have  labored  hard  in  search  for  fame  — 
I've  found  it  but  an  empty  name." 

"  I  love  to  live,"  said  a  happy  sire, 
As  his  claildren  neared  the  wintry  fire  ; 
For  his  heart  was  cheered  to  see  their  joy, 
And  he  almost  wished  himseK  a  boy. 

"  I  love  to  live,"  said  an  aged  man, 
Whose  hour  of  hfe  was  well  nigh  ran  ; 
Thiiik.  you  such  words  from  him  were  ■wild  ? 
The  old  man  was  again  a  child. 

And  ever  thus,  in  this  fallen  world, 

Is  the  banner  of  hope  to  the  breeze  unfurled, 

And  only  with  hope  of  a  life  on  high 

Can  a  mortal  ever  love  to  die. 

Effie  May. 


THE     BEAUTIFUL     IDEAL. 


There  is  an  ideal  song-born  spii-it  dwelling  witlinr 
5  the  inner  temple  of  our  natures.  It  is  all-seeing,  yet 
/  unseen ;  wandering  deep  ■within  the  dark  streams  of 
j    life.     It  is  the  hope  of  our  soul  —  the  brightcner  of  our 


76  THE    BE.VITIFUL    IDEA!,. 

being,  making  the  common  -waters  musical ;  binding 
■with,  a  silver  thread  all  tempest  -winds  ;  -walking  like  a 
bright  night  vision  o\-cr  this  dreary  earth  ;  sho-wing 
dimly,  by  the  soft  morning  light,  the  bright  Avorlds 
above. 

It  —  the  "  Beautiful  Ideal  "  —  stirs  our  soul  with  deep 
and  happy  thoughts,  A\-hen  life  Avears  tlie  hues  of  hoije. 
When,  too,  the  earth  is  -\\Tapt  in  gloom,  it  leads  us  far, 
i     far  -^'ithin  its  true  home,  and  makes  us  breathe  the  soft 

>  air,  and  gaze  upon  the  golden  sunlight,  painted  -with  its 
I  own  beautiful  colors.  Through  it,  spai-kling  rivers 
)  move  playfully  along,  catching  and  sporting  -with  the 
j  bright  beams  above,  or  give  back  the  silvery  light  of 
I  the  mild-eyed  stars,  that  look  so  lovingly  \ipon  its  calm 
/  bosom ;  or  -we  wander  amid  the  roseate  lu-ns  of  daA\ni, 
I  when  the  happy  skylark  weaves  the  wild  meshes  of  his 
^  song,  and  hold,  tlu-ough  the  ideal  of  our  nature,  secret 
I  coimnunion  with  the  oread,  that  sinks  in  mist  down 
I     the  mountain  side. 

{  This  fair,  wondrous,  unchanging  part  of  our  being  — 
)  this  inhabitant  of  our  heart  of  hearts  —  communes 
;  with  all  the  beings  Heaven  has  made,  finds  a  music  in 
!  tlic  wind  "  that  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,"  that 
)  plays  across  the  stream,  and  answers  to  its  own  pure 
i     song.     It  looks  forth  upon  the  stars  of  evening,  and 

>  finds  a  secret  sympatliy  —  a  holy  feeling  —  answer 
\  there.  It  needs  not  words  or  language.  It  goes  forth, 
j     and  mingles  with  its  kindred  essences  of  jnirity  and 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    IDEAL.  77 


hope.  O,  this  "Beautiful  Ideal"  witliiii  us  it  is  that 
stii-s  -within  the  desii-e  to  be  noble  —  to  search  for  \ 
•nisdom's  fount  —  to  commune  -with  the  skies.  It  [ 
M^akcs  the  ■\\ish  to  be  better  than  -we  are  —  it  gives  to  / 
us  the  glorious  shapes  of  heaven  —  the  yearnings  to  | 
soar  beyond  our  mortal  state.  } 

O,  there  is  a  truth  in  the  fictions  of  the  unseen  J 
■world !  There  are  bright  lingerers  by  the  forest  and  ' 
stream  !  Tliere  are  -winged  essences  of  life  that  look  J 
forth  from  the  soft  stars  —  that  tremble  in  the  s-weet  | 
flo-wers  —  mingling,  in  thought,  with  the  deeply  beau-  \ 
tiful  of  our  souls.  It  is  the  moonlight  track  upon  the  \ 
■waters  of  our  youth  ;  the  -whispers,  by  -svhich  the  ideal  j 
speaks  to  its  sympathetic  ideal ;  the  secret  and  unac- 
countable affinity,  by  -which  the  beautiful  of  our  nature 
is  drawn  to  the  beautiful  of  another  ]iature,  and  -fi-ith  it 
holds  yiViXQ  and  lofty  communings.  This  something, 
that  unites  the  children  of  earth  to  the  spirits  of  a  ', 
finer  race  —  this  lofty  aspiration,  that  desii-es  the  bright, 
the  far,  the  unattained  —  this  something,  that  makes 
life  sunny  golden,  and  gilds  our  path  %^ith  joy  —  this 
mj'sterious,   yet   "  Beautifid  Ideal,"   is  the  love  of  the 

soul, 

"  Luc." 


7  * 


4 


78  TOO    EARLY    LOST. 


TOO    EARLY    LOST. 

Too  lovely  and  too  early  lost ! 

My  memory  clings  to  thee, 
For  thou  wast  once  my  guiding  star 

Amid  the  treacherous  sea ; 
But  doubly  cold  and  cheerless  now, 

The  wave  too  dark  before, 
Since  every  beacon-light  is  quenched 

Along  the  midnight  shore. 

I  saw  thee  fii-st,  -when  hope  arose 

On  youth's  triumphant  M-ing, 
And  thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  light 

Of  early  dawning  spring. 
Who  then  could  dream,  that  health  and  joy 

Would  e'er  desert  the  bro^^•, 
So  bright  with  varying  lustre  oni'C, 

So  chill  and  changeless  now  r 

That  brow  !  how  proudly  o'er  it  then 

Thy  kingly  beauty  hung, 
When  wit,  or  eloquence,  or  miith, 

Came  burning  from  the  tongue  ! 
Or  -when  upon  that  glowing  check 

Tlie  kindling  smile  was  spread. 


TOO    EARLY    LOST.  79 


Or  tears,  to  thine  o^vn  avocs  denied, 
For  others'  griefs  were  shed  1 

Thy  mind,  it  ever  was  the  home 

Of  high  and  holy  thought ; 
Thy  life,  an  emblem  of  pure  thoughts, 

Thy  pui-e  example  taught ; 
"When  blended  in  thine  eye  of  light. 

As  from  a  royal  throne, 
Kmdness,  and  peace,  and  vii'tue,  there 

In  mingled  radiance  shone. 

One  evening,  when  the  autumn  dew 

Upon  the  hills  was  shed. 
And  Hesperus,  far  down  the  west. 

His  starry  host  had  led, 
Thou  saidst,  how  sadly  and  how  soft, 

To  that  prophetic  eye, 
Visions  of  darkness  and  decUnc 

And  early  death  Avere  nigh. 

It  was  a  voice  from  other  worlds, 

Which  none  beside  might  hear. 
Like  the  night  breeze's  plainti^'e  lyre. 

Breathed  famtly  on  the  ear ; 
It  was  the  warning  kindly  giA'Cn, 

When  blessed  spuits  come 
From  their  bright  paradise  above. 

To  call  a  sister  home. 


-m 


f 


80  TOO    EAKLY    LOST. 

How  sadly  on  my  spiiit  then 

That  fatal  warning  fell ! 
But  O,  the  dark  reality 

Another  voice  may  tell ; 
The  quick  decline  —  the  parting  sigh.  — 

The  slowly  mo-^-ing  bier  — 
The  lifted  sod  —  the  scidptured  stone  — 

The  unavaUino;  tear. 


The  amaranth  flowers,  that  bloom  in  heaven, 

Entwine  thy  temples  now ; 
The  crown  that  shines  immortally 

Is  beaming  on  thy  brov.- ; 
The  seraphs  round  the  biu'ning  throne 

Have  borne  thee  to  thy  rest, 
To  d'\\cU  among  the  saints  on  high, 

Companions  of  the  blest. 

The  sun  liath  set  in  folded  clouds, 

Its  twilight  rays  are  gone. 
And  gathered  in  the  shades  of  night, 

The  storm  is  rolling  on. 
Alas  I  liow  ill  that  bursting  stoim 

The  faintiug  spirit  braves, 
\Vhcn  they,  the  lovely  and  the  lost. 

Arc  goiu'  to  early  graves  I 

0.   ir.  B.  Pealwihj. 


PASSING    AWAY. 


81 


PASSING    AWAY. 


TuE  bcautiiul,  fair,  and  the  lovely  of  earth, 
Are  fading  fore'er  from  the  hour  of  their  bu-th  ; 
The  dew-drops  of  morning,  the  sun's  parting  ray, 
Are  fading,  fast  fading,  and  passing  away. 
The  roses  of  summer,  whose  breath  fills  the  gale, 
Who  send  forth  their  odors  from  hill-side  and  vale, 
Look  at  eve  to  the  skies,  and  in  sighs  seem  to  say,       , 
"  Bathe  our  petals  in  tears  —  we  are  passing  away." 
The  sunny  stream  laughs  in  the  pure  light  of  mom, 
But  onward,  still  onward,  its  waters  are  borne  ; 
Its  sparkling  is  transient  —  its  waves  may  not  stay  ; 
To  the  depths  of  the  ocean  it  passeth  away. 
Yet  what  is  the  streamlet,  the  rose-bud,  and  dew. 
To  the  cheek  that  is  flusliing  mth  youth's  crimson  hue  — 
To  the  eye  tliat  is  kindling  with  hope  and  delight, 
As  it  turns  to  the  future,  all  splendid  and  bright  ? 
Alas  !   for  the  visions  and  dreams  of  our  youth, 
When  shadows  seem  substance,  and  friendship  seems 

truth  ; 
Like  the  sere  leaves  of  autumn,  the  last  beam  of  day. 
They  fade  into  darkness  —  they  aU  pass  awav. 
Yes,  passinj  aicay  is  the  watchword  of  time  ; 
Earth's  bright  ones  are  destined  to  fade  in  thcLr  prune, 


82  PRESS    ON. 

In  life's  verdant  spring,  to  lie  clo^^•n  in  the  tomb, 
And  shroud  in  death's  mantle  theu*  beauty  and  bloom. 
And  e'en  the  -wide  earth,  -with  her  valleys  and  rills, 
Ilcr  tirmly  set  mountains,  and  unshaken  hills, 
Is  marked  for  destruction  —  is  doomed  for  decay  ; 
On  licr  brow  is  engraven,  •'  Fast  passing  away." 

Jl/.  A.  Dodge. 


PRESS    ON. 


What  seest  lliou  hero  ?  wlir.t  inark'st  f     A  hiUtle-tiuld, 
Two  banners  s|)rc!ul,  two  ilreaiU'ul  fronts  of  war, 
III  Bhock  of  oppositioii  fuTce  on^'agod. 

Here  error  fought 
Willi  triitli,  with  ilarkiiess  hglit,  iind  life  with  death  j 

the  strife  was  for  eternity, 
'J'he  victory  was  nevor-oiiding  hllM, 
Tlic  budge,  a  chaplct  from  Ilie  tree  of  Hf<'. 

Courae  of  Time. 

WuKN  weary  witli  the  march  of  life, 

And  ycarnetl  my  soul  for  rest, 
Some  unseen  spirit  whispered  nio, 
"  Press  on  —  wouldst  tliou  be  blessed. 

"Ay,  press  thou  onward  in  the  strife, 
'      Nor  yield  to  adverse  fate ; 


PKESS    ON.  83      I 

I 

/ 

The  future  is  with  blessings  rife, 
To  those  who  toil  and  wait. 

"  When  darksome  hours  their  shadows  cast 
O'er  all  thy  toilsome  way, 
Remember,  in  thine  agony, 
'Tis  darkest  just  ere  day. 

"If  fortune's  sky  o'erclouded  be, 
And  siin  illume  it  not. 
Still  labor  on,  right  manfully,  — 
In  heaven  thou'rt  not  forgot. 

"  Then  move  thou  on,  to  '  do  and  dare,' 
Nor  yield  to  sordid  might ; 
And  where  the  fiercest  struggles  are, 
There  battle  for  the  right  ; 

"  And  ne'er  the  battle  strife  give  o'er, 
Nor  strike  thy  banner  down. 
Till  thy  brave  heart  can  do  no  more  — 
Then  seek,  in  heaven,  thy  crown." 


84  KINDNESS.  ,    } 


KINDNESS. 

Who  has  power  should  have  a  kiucUy  heart,  for  so 
wiil  he  win  jEricnds.  The  kuig  should  smile  upon  his 
lowhcst  subject ;  for  doth  not  the  I^ug  of  kings  care 
even  for  the  little  sparro-\v  ?  Kindness  is  the  "  oi^eu 
sesame  "  to  almost  every  heart.  Ay,  kindness.  Man 
may  frown,  and  vassals  Avill  shrink  with  terror  —  ■will 
\ield  up  theu'  lives,  and  pour  out  their  very  hearts' 
blood  at  his  command ;  but  when  the  hour  of  trial 
comes,  when  he  shall  drink  deep  —  deep  even  to  the 
very  dregs  the  bitter  cup  of  woe,  and  the  heart  seems 
crushed  'neath  its  weight  of  sorrow  —  then  there 
win  be  no  eye  to  pity,  no  hand  to  save.  Even  -with 
the  measure  he  pave,  so  shall  it  be  ractcd  out  to  him. 

People  talk  of  woman's  influence ;  that  she  can 
sway  the  proudest  heart,  can  bend  the  stubborn  will, 
—  and  why  r  She  has  not  that  depth  of  intellect,  that 
comprehension  of  human  nature,  that  enables  man  "  to 
lord  it  o'er  his  fellow-man."  She  has  not  an  arm 
whose  strength  o'erpowers,  nor  a  love  of  danger  that 
braves,  the  opposing  obstacle  ;  but  she  is  strong  in  the 
might  of  her  woman's  nature,  and  kiiulncss  is  her 
sceptre.     A  true  woman  will  pity  —  not  censure  error  j 


i 

KINDNESS.  85 

and  who  stoops  to  pity,  niust  learn  to  love,  for  kind- 
ness is  a  bright  stream  from  that  fountain,  gushing 
■warm  and  pure  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the  heart, 
where  its  sparkling  play  has  wreathed  many  a  sad 
one's  life  in  beaming  smiles. 

"  Love  is  the  silken  cord  that  binda 

Those  happy  souls  above, 
And  if  in  heaven  a  place  we'd  find, 

We  must  he  formed  for  love." 

Not  man  alone,  but  every  thing  in  nature,  owns  its 
sway.  I  knew  a  little  flower  that  sprang  up  amid  the 
weeds  and  brambles  of  a  long-neglected  garden.     But 

soon   drooped   its   slender  stem,  and  its  leaves  grew  <. 

tinged  from  the  waste  around.     I  took  it  to  my  home,  I 

supported  its  di-oopiug  stem,  and  placed  it  where  the  | 

wann    sunsliine   and   refreshing  showers  cheered  its  ■> 

little  life.     Agaui  it  raised  its  beauteous  head,  and  its  S 

delicate  buds  burst  forth  in  sweetest  gladness ;  and  l 

when  the  winds  of  autumn  came,  the  dying  flower  ^ 

gave  up  to  me  its  golden  seeds  —  a  thanlcful  tribute  i 

for  my  love.     'Twas  a  little  thing,  but  kindness  did  \ 

the  deed.  ^ 

c 

There  came  to  my  casement,   one  ^vinter's  morn,  a  { 

shivering,  starving  bird,  and  perched  it  there,  striving  \ 

to  tell  its  tale  of  suffering  ;  but  feeble  were  its  plain-  | 

tive    notes,    and  its  glossy   breast   was  ruffled  in  the  \ 

blast.     I  raised  the   Avindow.     Affriglited,  the   little  \ 


8 


86  KINDNESS. 


wanderer  spread  its  wings  as  if  to  soar   away ;  but, 
weak  and  faint,  it  sank  fluttering  in  my  outstretched 

S  hands.     I  drew  it  in.     Alamied,  it  darted  round  and 

I  round  the  room,   and  beat  against  the  frosted  pane. 

I  O   cruelty,   thou   hast  taught  even  the   little  birds  to 

J  doubt !     "NVhcn  tlic  sweet  stranger  grew  less  timid,  I 

j  gave  him  clear  water,  and  tempting  food,  and  so  for 

\  many  weeks  we  dwelt  together ;  but  when  came  the 

<  first  warm,  sunny  day,  I  opened  my  doors,  and  he 
/  flew  away,  away  up,  up  into  the  dark  blue  heaven, 
j  tUl  he  was  lost  to  my  eager  gaze.  But  not  an  hour 
'  had  passed,  ere  I  heard  the  flutter  of  his  tiny  wings, 
',  and  saw,  witliout,  his  little  breast  glitteiing  in  the 
■  golden  sunbeams.  A  joyous  life  was  his.  No  wii-ed 
':  cage  restrained  his  restless  wing  ;  btit  free  as  the  sum- 
\  mer  cloud  would  he  come  each  day,  and  gladly  would 

<  ray  delighted  soul  drink  in  the  silvery  notes  of  his 
*  gladdening  melody. 

S  And  it  is  not  birds  and  flowers  alone,  that,  treated 

\  with  kindness,  flourish  ko  brightly  "ncath  its  heavcn- 

^  born   rays.     Individuals,   families,  nations,    attest  its 

I  truth.     Lcf/al  suwsion  may  frighten  to  coniiiliancc,  but 

J  iiioml  sttasion  rules  the  will.     To  the  erring  wanderer, 

{  in  the  by  and  forbidden  paths  of  sin,    with  a  heart 

I  paled  in  darkness,  and  lost  to  every  better  feeling  of 

i  his  nature,  one  little  word,  one  little  net  of  kindness, 

I  however  slight,  will  lind  a  sunny  rcsting-iilaee  in  that 
sinful  8ha(h-,  and  prove  a  light   to   guide  the  wayward 


H- 


KINDNESS.  87 


>     one  to  holier  and  better  deeds.     The  lion  licked  the     5 

;  ', 

hand  that  drew  the  thorn  fi-om  his  wounded  foot,  and     I 


Powhatan  stayed  the  descending  club,  when  the  biirn-  / 

ing  lips  of  the  Indian  girl  pressed  his  dusky  brow.  \ 

And  it  is  ever  thus.     There  beats  not  a  heart,  how-  • 

ever  debased  by  sin,  or  darkened  by  sorroAV,  that  lias  ; 

not  its  noblest  impulses  aroused,  in  view  of  a  generous  J 

and  kindly  action.     The  Holy  Father  implanted  his     \ 

> 
own  pure  principles  in  the  breast  of  every  one,  and     ) 

widely  do  -s^e  deviate  from  their  just  dictates,  when  an  j 

unkind  word,    or    an    unkind   act,    wounds    a  broken  ', 

heart,  or  crushes  a  loving,  gentle  nature.  ^ 

Then,  — 

"  Speak  not  harshly  —  much  of  care 
Ever>'  human  heart  must  bear; 
Enough  of  shadows  rudely  play 
Around  the  very  summit  way; 
Enough  of  sorrows  darkly  lie 
Veiled  within  tlie  merriest  eye. 
By  thy  childhood's  gushing  tears, 
By  thy  grief  in  after  years, 
By  the  anguish  thou  dost  know. 
Add  not  to  another's  woe, 

t 

^  "  Speak  not  harshly  —  much  of  sin 

Dwelleth  every  heart  within  ; 

In  its  closely  cavcrncd  cells, 

Many  a  wayward  pasision  dwells. 

By  tlie  many  hours  misspent, 

By  the  gifts  to  error  lent, 


By  the  wrongs  thou  didst  not  shun, 
By  the  good  thou  hast  not  done, 
With  a  lenient  spirit  scan 
'i'hc  weakness  of  thy  brother  man." 

Kale  Clarence,  (.Mauckcitcr.) 


MAY    DAY    ON    ROCK    RAYMOND. 

It  -wtiH  the  gala  morning  of  the  spring, 

When  young,  exultant  hearts  forsake  their  liomes, 

To  wander  forth  among  the  woods  and  flowers. 

It  was  a  pleasant  morn.     The  night  winds  slept, 

And  many  gladsome  eyes  had  early  op'd 

To  catch  the  aiispicious  omens  of  the  dav. 

Upon  the  rock-^■ro^^-ncd  steep  that  rises  in 
The  distant  wild,  o'ersprcad  ^\  ith  mossy  turf 
And  pitchy  pines,  sat  there  an  aged  crow, 
Lone  and  weary  with  the  vigils  of  the  night. 
No  sound  alarmed,  no  daring  step  disturbed 
The  quiet  of  his  rest.     The  day  advanced. 
Anon,  the  chime  of  bolls  is  distant  heard, 
And  sounds  of  merry  voices  come  ringing  up 
The  shady  glen.     Again  the  sound  —  again  — 
The  crow  is  winging  swift  wide  o'er  the  plain. 


MAY    DAY    ON    ROCK    RAYMOND.  89 

At  once,  emerging  from  the  forest  glade, 
A  gallant  band  have  wound  the  rocky  steep, 
And  shoiit  in  triumph  from  its  topmost  crag. 
"  Enchanting  !  "   bursts  from  every  lip.     Above, 
The  clouds  dissolve  in  amber  light ;  around, 
The  air  is  laden  with  the  gentle  breath 
Of  southern  climes  ;  and  the  sun,  new  risen, 
Casts  its  golden  light  high  up  the  crystal 
Tower  of  morn.     Delectable  the  scene  ! 
The  right  outlines  the  mormtain  summit  bold  ; 
The  left,  the  sloping  hUls  and  browsing  plains  ; 
The  river,  winding  o'er  the  woodland  vales, 
The  city  near,  and  village  just  in  view  ;  — 
Below,  where  lead  the  bending  forest  paths. 
Gay  troops  of  cavaliers  are  prancing  near, 
Or  "  mounting  in  hot  haste  "  the  rugged  cHfF, 
Now  swarming  o'er  with  ripening  loveliness, 
And  echoing  far  with  warbling  minstrelsy. 

To  paint  that  flock  of  rosy,  romping  girls, 
And  manly  boys  —  to  note  the  fresh-culled  flowers. 
Each  changing  glance,  and  tinging  check  that  marked 
That  Gal-a  scene— ix  bolder  pen  might  dare. 

An  hour  swift-winged  has  passed.     No  longer  comes 
The  laughing  shout,  or  choral  song ;  no  more 
The  sight  of  tresses  "  waving  in  the  morn." 
Alas  !  that  joyous-hearted  band  have  gone. 


8  * 


f 


90  FAUEWELL    TO    NLW    ENGLAND. 


FAREWELL    TO    XEW    ENGLAND. 

Faiiewell  to  New  England,  the  land  of  my  birth, 
I     To  the  liome  of  my  father,  the  hall,  and  the  hearth  ; 
To  the  bemgs  beloved,  -who  have  gladdened  v-ith  light 
Life's  perilous  path  —  be  their  own  ever  bright 

And  O,  A\hen  the  exile  is  present  in  thought, 
Be  the  fond  recollection  Avith  happiness  fraught ; 
Remember  —  remember  —  but  not  to  deplore. 
Remember  in  smiles,  or  remember  no  more  I 

I  go  to  the  land  of  the  myrtle  and  vine, 
Where  beauty  is  ANTcathing  the  pillar  and  shrine  ; 
Where  fairy-like  feet  arc  repelling  tlic  sod, 
And  the  incense  of  nature  is  breathing  to  God. 

My  grave  will  be  made  a\  here  the  A\'inter  is  not, 
And  the  sun  of  the  south  may  iUuniiiie  the  spot ; 
Will  gild  and  will  gladden  the  place  of  my  rest, 
Imparting  in  death  what  in  life  I  loved  best. 

That  smile  all  unclouded  when  others  are  Hown, 
Bright  beautiful  nature  1  that  smile  is  thine  own  ! 
A  glory  above  all  the  glories  of  earth, 
Tlie  glory  that  woke  when  the  morning  had  birth  ! 

Mn.  S.  R.  ^.  Barnes. 


■M 


vH 


-fl 


SPEAK    KINDLY.  91 


SPEAK    KINDLY. 
"  All  cannot  be  greatest,  but  all  can  be  kind." 

"  Speak  kindly  to  thy  fellow-man, 

Lest  he  should  die  while  yet 
Thy  bitter  accents  wring  his  heart 

And  make  his  pale  cheek  wet." 

Speak  kindly  to  thy  brother  man,  for  he  has  many 
cares  thou  dost  not  know  ;  many  sorrows  thine  cj'e 
has  not  seen  ;  and  grief  may  be  gnawing  at  his  heart- 
strings, wliich  ere  long  wiU  snap  them  asunder.  O, 
speak  kindly  to  him.  Perhaps  a  word  from  thee  -v^ill 
kindle  the  light  of  joy  in  his  o'ershadowed  heart,  and 
make  his  pathway  pleasant  to  tho  tomb.  Speak  kind- 
ly to  thy  brother  man,  even  though  sin  has  marred  the 
spirit's  beauty,  and  turned  to  discord  the  once  perfect 
hai-mony  of  his  being.  Harshness  can  never  reclaim 
him  —  kindness  will.  Far  down,  beneath  all  his  de- 
pravity, there  lingers  still  a  spark  of  the  spirit's  loveli- 
ness, that  one  word  from  thee  may  kindle  to  a  flame  ; 
may  eventually  purify  the  whole  man,  and  make  him, 
what  he  was  designed  to  be,  the  true  image  of  his 
God.     Then  speak  kindly,   act  kindly  to  all,  and  ask 


92 


STANZAS. 


not   whom  thou  servest.     Enough  for  thee   to  know 

that  he  belongs  to  the  common  brotherhood,  and  needs 

thy  sympathy. 

Josephine  L.    Baker. 


STANZAS. 

Tiiou  sayest  the  world  is  cold  and  false  ; 

I  know  not  if  it  be  ; 
With  its  beaming  faces  and  loving  hearts, 

'Tis  a  world  of  light  to  me. 
Joy  gUdeth  into  my  silent  heart, 

Far  dov»Ti  in  its  fathomless  sea ; 
O,  the  angel  of  life  wears  a  smile  of  light, 

"When  ho  pouvcth  the  cnp  for  me. 

There  are  times,  indeed,  wlien  I  feel  tlic  chain, 

When  my  heart  leajietli  wild  and  free  ; 
And  fain,  in  thy  gorgeous  rainbow  land. 

Would  my  spirit  dwell  with  thee  ; 
When  chainlcss  thoughts  like  a  storm  sweep  on, 

And  my  soul  like  a  reed  doth  bow. 
And  the  world  to  the  struggling,  imprisoned  heart 

Scemeth  all  too  narrow  now. 


AKISTOCllACY.  93 

Then  a  gentle  hand  is  laid  on  mine, 

And  I  cannot  choose  but  bless 
The  love-lighted  eyes,  uplift  to  me, 

With  such  melting  tenderness. 
Then  I  smooth  the  close-curled  locks  away, 

And  I  Idss  the  open  brow  — 
O,  the  world  of  dreams  is  not  so  fair 

As  the  bright  earth  to  me  now. 

Then  speak  no  more  of  the  cold,  dark  earth ; 

'Tis  the  home  where  love  doth  dwell ; 
And  with  its  glad  faces,  and  voices  kind, 

O,  my  heart  doth  love  it  well. 
And  by  the  great  Father  of  light  I  love, 

Doubt  not  it  shall  be  forgiven. 
If  thanks  for  the  fair,  all- glorious  earth 

Ascend  with  the  prayer  for  heaven. 

"  lonr,"  (Plymouth.) 


g^ 


ARISTOCRACY. 

Let  me  give  it  an  off-hand  blow  here.  Hateful, 
heartless  aristocracy  !  I  detest  it  above  aU  things.  I 
was  subjected  to  its  bloated  frown  wlicn  I  was  a  boy, 
and  I  have  a  very  early,  if  not  a  native,  inborn  abhor- 
rence of  it.    It  has  no  idea  you  have  any  rights,  or  any 


--a 

94  ARISTOCRACY. 

feelings.  You  do  not  belong  to  the  same  race  Mith 
your  jialtry,  uppish  aristocrat.  He  does  not  associate 
with  you  when  you  arc  with  him.  He  makes  use  of 
you.  He  does  not  recognize  you  as  a  party  in  interest 
in  what  is  going  on.  You  arc  no  more  a  companion  to 
him,  than  hia  horse  or  his  dog ;  and  you  arc  no  more 
than  a  dog  or  a  horse,  if  you  condescend  to  be  of  his 
association.  He  belongs  to  the  first  funulies  —  first  in 
idleness,  first  in  indulgence,  first  in  the  scorn  of  hu-  \ 
manity.  Sometimes  you  will  find  it  happening  amid 
the  ranks  of  reform.  It  is  when  it  is  eccentric  and  iU 
balanced,  tliat  it  strays  in  there.  It  will  keep  its 
eccentricity,  but  not  part  with  Its  haughtiness.  One  \ 
day  or  other  it  will  break  out.  King  lliohard  could 
carouse  and  fight  by  the  side  of  llobiu  Hood  and  the 
outlaws  of  Sherwood  Forest ;  but  every  now  and  then, 
outlawed  freedom  would  tread  on  the  too  of  majesty, 
and  regality  would  show  its  teeth  and  claws.  Richard 
was  an  odd  king,  and  ■went  among  the  brave  outknvs, 
and  fought  on  foot  among  them,  liut  ^\•hcn  outlawry 
took  the  liberty  to  speak  to  him,  on  even  terms  of 
fellow-soldiership,  it  roused  the  Lion  in  him,  and  ho 
roared  and  shook  liis  mane.  Aristocracy  has  none  of 
i  the  lion  in  it,  but  it  fo^sh  hii/ger  than  a  whole  don  of 
lions.  You  must  beware  of  it.  You  (':in't  livo  with 
it.  It  regards  every  tliiu;;'  allowed  you  as  an  allow- 
ance—  a  favoi'.  You  have  no  rights.  11  you  receive 
any  thing,  you  must  do  liomage  f  )r  it. 


AIirSTOCllACY.  95      S 


Now  I  lUvO  refinement,  and  dislike  coarseness  and 
grossness.  I  am  disgusted  at  dirtiness  of  spirit,  but  I 
abominate  uppishness.  I  like  -washed  hands,  but  not 
those  "  dainty  fingers  ;  "  cleanliness  and  elegance,  to 
any  extent,  and  the  refined  and  delicate  taste.  These 
are  often  united  -with  ycomanly  nature,  "svitli  fi-ecdom 
from  all  superciliousness  and  self- worship,  and  I  love 
them.  But  tliis  aristocracy  I  -will  not  tolerate  or 
endiu-e.  I  have  not  the  slightest  respect  for  it.  I  will 
not  treat  it  courteously  even.  I  wUl  not  treat  it  at  all. 
I  will  not  have  it  about.  Out  of  the  way  with  it,  and  ^ 
out  of  the  world.  I 

It  comes  by  birth,  it  comes  by  money,  it  comes  of 
idleness  even.  It  is  engendered  by  trade  and  by  office. 
Old  wealth,  however,  breeds  it  the  most  offensively  — 
a  generation  or  two  of  homage  paid  by  poverty  to 
bloated  opulence,  will  breed  it  the  worst  kind.  It  will 
tiim  up  the  nose  of  the  third  or  fourth  generation, 
along  —  so  that  it  can  hardly  smell  common  folks,  as 
they  go  on  the  ground.  You  can  tcU  its  nose  and 
upper  lip  as  far  as  you  can  see  them.  And  there  is  a 
dumpsij  daisy  look  about  the  eyes  and  eyebrows,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "I  care  considerably  less  than  nothing 
about  ijeh,"     And  the  voice,  too,  it  is  amazing  pecuUar. 


Now,  any  body  may  bo  as  well  born  as  they  have  a     { 
mind  to.     My  father  was  a  gentleman,  as  they  call  it, 
and   a  scholar,  —  a  good  deal  of  a  scholar.     And  he 
was   educated  ;  was   of  Ilarvard  College  —  not    poor 


96  ARISroCKACY. 


'i  New    Hainpsliire    Dartmouth  —  Harvard   College,    of 

<  Massachusetts.  And  he  was  of  the  learned  profession, 
'>  aud  his  father  was  a  learned  divine,  and  liis  grand- 
^  fatlier,  and  great-grandfather,  and  I  don't  know  how 
>  far  back.  One  of  them,  not  far  back,  -was  president  of 
\  Harvard  College  ;  and  back  farther  yet,  one  was  burnt 
J  at  tlie  stake.  I  am  well  descended  enough,  for  's  I 
i  know,  but  somehow  it  never  made  me  despise  any 
j  body.  I  never  could  help  seeing  equal  humanity 
J  in  every  living  creature,  however  poor  aud  forlorn,  and 

*  my  father  did  before  me.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  been  an 
'  aristocrat,  I  should  have  been  one.  But  Ire  had  too 
';  much  sense  —  too  much  real  character  and  manhood. 
^  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  I  have  ;  —  that  is,  I  haven't 

<  a  vein  or  an  iota  of  uppish  blood  in  mc,  and  it  must 
(  be  owing  to  somethhuj,  I  haven't  any  superfluity  of 
!  sense  —  but  —  too  much  to  be  an  aristocrat.  Finallv. 
J  it  doesn't  tixkc  much  to  be  an  aristocrat.  I  guess  aris- 
;  tofrucy  is  a  hwk  of  seiisr  as  much  as  any  thing.  Sense 
'(  of  a  certain  sort  may  accompany  it,  or  be  in  the  same     I 

•  creature  ;  but  it  is  a  sen«clcss  conccru,  ai\d,  moreover,     j 
\  superlatively  hateful.  I 

JV.  p.  Rujrerj.  5 


-|g 


MY    SPIRIT    HOME.  97 


MY    SPIRIT    HOME. 

I  AM  alone  —  no  one  is  near  — 
The  daylight  houi-s  are  past, 

And,  with  her  sable  cnrtain,  Night 
Is  shrouding  nature  fast ; 

And  spirit  forms  around  me  move  ; 
Their  whispers  spcali  them  near  : 

They  call  me,  —  glad  wo\ild  I  obey,  — 
"  0  come,  thy  home's  not  here." 

Sweet  visions  now  of  other  days, 

When  friends  and  hopes  were  mine, 
And  youthful  fancy  painted  bright 

The  scliemes  of  after  time ; 
Then  flowers  above  my  pathway  grew  — 

Those  flowers,  now  dead  and  sere. 
To  me  with  warning  voices  speak, 

"  Thy  home,  it  is  not  here." 

The  twilight's  past,  its  spirits  fled. 
And  darkness  wTaps  the  whole ; 

But  deeper  gloom  than  that  of  night 
Is  -wTappcd  around  my  soul. 


The  voices  of  departed  joys, 

Now  fall  on  memory's  ear, 
United  all  —  one  voice  they  speak,  — 

"  Thy  spiiit's  home's  not  here." 

The  stars  that  gem  the  sparkling  dome. 

They  Avhisper  peace  to  me, 
}  And  tell  me  that  I  have  a  home 

<  Beyond  life's  darkened  sea ; 

i  And  though  on  earth  no  friends  I  find, 

I  Yet  kindi-cd  souls  there  are 

}  In  that  bright  world,  far,  far  away  — 

"My  spirit's  home  is  there." 

O  spirits  of  departed  friends  !  — 

Too  good  —  too  pure  to  die  — 
Come  down  ujion  the  moon's  pale  beam, 

And  hover  i-ound  me  nigh. 
How  soft  and  sweet  their  voices  ring 

Upon  the  evening  air  ! 
Their  music  seems  the  notes  of  heaven,  — 

"  My  spirit's  houK^  is  there." 

JV.  Wright,  {IMderntss.) 


THE    VALLEY    I    LOVE. 

Tueke's  a  spot  that  I  love,  in  a  bright  sumiy  vale, 
Where  whole  hours  I've  listened  the  song 

Of  the  redbreast  and  tlu-ush,  as  the  soft,  balmy  gale, 
Bore  the  notes  of  their  chanting  along. 

On  a  green,  mossy  bank,  'neath  a  huge  spreading  tree, 

In  the  deep  heat  of  noon  I  have  lain, 
And  watched  the  light  shadows,  so  sportive  and  free, 

Chase  each  spii-it-like  form  o'er  the  plain. 

I've  sat  'neath  the  shade  with  the  poets  of  old. 

And  drank  from  Castalia's  piu-c  fount, 
And  gathered,  as  they  their  bright  thoughts  would 
unfold, 

Rich  gems  from  Parnassus'  high  mount. 

I've  sat  there  'till  eve  drew  her  beautiful  veil 

O'er  the  radiant  face  of  the  day  ; 
"NVhen  the  moon  from  her  chamber  came  forth  ghostly 
pale. 

And  majesticly  passed  on  her  way. 

I've  watched  the  bright  stars,  as  they  coyly  would  peep 
Through  the  thick  waving  leaves  of  the  tree, 


m- 


~m 


100 


A    FLOWER. 


Aiid  thought  I  -were  blest,  if  at  last  I  might  sleep 
With  such  -watchful  eyes  guarding  o'er  inc. 

A  sweet,  quiet  cot  iu  that  vale  might  be  seen, 
Ai'ound  whose  low,  moss-covered  eaves, 

The  young  t-\\  ining  woodbine,  so  tender  and  green, 
Spreads  out  its  rich  covering  of  leaves. 

That  green  sumiy  vale  wUl  be  dear  to  my  heart, 

Though  wide  over  earth  I  may  roam, 
And  that  low,  quiet  cot,  with  its  vine-covered  walls, 

I  shall  ever  remember  as  Home. 

JIannah  M.  Bryant,  (Manclicstcr.) 


A    FLOAVER. 


<  [Thovghts  suggested  by  the  discovery  of  a  llowcr, 
/  foimd  in  one  of  the  Western  States,  in  the  hcai't  of  a 

>  rock.    When  found,  it  was  fresh  and  bcautil'ul.     None 

>  has  ever  been  seen  like  it,  as  a  native,  or  exotic] 

S  IJt'iiulirul  ri'llc  of  a  dii^taiit  lime, 

/  Wr  guze  ciilruiicud  on  llice, 

>  Anil  llioughta  unliidileii  ore  rliislcring  close, 
'  For  funcy  will  Iro  iVce. 

I  Meteou-i-ikk  thou'st  fljished  across  our  path, 

<  Blazing  with  wonder.     Startled  amazement 


A    FLOWER.  101       ] 

> 

i 

5 
Fills  our  souls  ;  and  -whence  came  ye  ?  trembles  on        j 

> 
Every  lip.     How  long  in  this  thy  granite  casket  J 

Hast  thou  hid  a  living,  fragrant  jewel,  > 

Breathing  in  beautv :     What  tale  canst  thou  tell  >, 

Of  other  days  ?  —  and  among  all  thy  sister  flowers  $ 

AVast  thou  acknowledged  queen  ?     Hast  ^ 

Thou  come  to  rival  our  blushing  beauty,  while  the  > 

Damask  deepens  on  its  cheek  as  we  award  to  J 

Thee  the  admii-ation  ever  before  heaped 

Upon  it  ?     Is  this  thy  mission,  to  show 

Erring  mortals  earth's  fairest  flower  ? 

Perhaps  thou  bloomed  in  Paradise,  ere  man's 

Sin  had  marred  its  loveliness  ;  and  perchance, 

Plucked,  thou  fell  from  the  hands  of  perfect  Eve, 

And  lodged  in  thy  rude  enclosure,  which  time. 

Scaling,  kept  as  a  memento  of  earth's 

Primeval  bcautj'.     Thy  birthplace,  purity  — 

Nurtured  in  innocence,  art  thou  indeed 

A  plant  of  Eden  ?     Did  thy  bud  expand. 

Thy  leaves  unfold,  cultured  and  reared  by 

Sinless  hands  ? —  inhaling  an  atmosphere 

Impregnate  with  holiness,  and  watered 

With  celestial  dews,  didst  bloom  a 

Perfect  flower  ?     Hast  thou  lived  the  wreck  of 

Ages,  and  come  to  man  the  only  remnant 

Of  paradisiacal  piuity  r     Six 

Thousand  years  hast  thou  slept  in  thy  hardened 


f 

\       102  THE    HEVEEIE. 


J 


Bed,  and  now,  by  man's  rude  hands,  art  thou  \ 

Startled  from  thy  stupor  :     How  changed 
Earth's  aspect !     And  as  horror-struck  thou  op'st 
Thine  eyes  'neath  sin's  domain,  no  wonder  tliou 
Shrinkest  %\ith  terror,  thy  leaves  quiver, 
And  thy  shrivelled  form,  gasping,  sleeps 
Once  again,  earth's  last,  long,  darkened  sleep. 

"  //.,"  {^Manchester.) 


THE    REVERIE. 

One  day,  just  after  dinner. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year, 
When  the  trees  were  getting  thinner 

Of  their  withered  leaves  and  sere  — 
"With  my  head  iqion  my  hand, 

In  a  drowsy  sort  of  \\a\, 
I  nearly  lost  mo  in  that  land 

^^^lere  di"caras  olysiau  play. 

Then  frona  out  this  soul  of  mine, 
Came  trooping  all  together, 


THE    EEVERIE.  103 

The  memories  of  olden  time, 
Like  giants  of  a  nurfs'ry  rhjoi^e. 
In  seven-leagued  sole  leather. 

As  I  nodded  there,  and  slept 

Like  an  alderman  in  church, 
A  funny  vision  o'er  me  crept. 

Of  an  urchin  and  his  birch. 
With  this  birchen-beaten  urchin, 

Somehow  came  into  my  thought, 
LoAv-roofed  and  red,  some  ancient  -walls, 

"Where  my  luckless  brains  were  taught. 

I  remembered,  too,  quite  well. 

The  spot  just  where  I  caught  iti  — 
The  time  that  fatal  ferule  fell,  — 

The  fell  misdeed  that  brought  it. 
Hare  old  times  were  those,  I  ween, 

Many  times  in  noontide  hoiu's. 
When  schoolboy  king  and  rustic  queen 

Wreathed  their  crowns  of  summer  flowers. 

Now  the  sighmg,  Avhispering  breeze. 

Stealing  through  my  open  door, 
Like  gales  from  Valambrosian  trees, 

AU  my  chamber  scented  o'er, 
And  my  slowly  opening  eyes 

Unto  my  wuidow  turning. 


104 


THE    IDEAL    OF    A    TRUE    LIFE. 


-a 


From  off  the  tui-f  there  seemed  to  rise 
A  cloud  like  incense  burning ; 

Then  a  faint,  uncertain  light, 
As  of  nebulaj  afar. 

In  this  cloud  moves  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  spirit  of  a  stai\ 

And  then  !  —  and  then  !  O,  bless  me  ! 

In  the  midst  of  my  surprise, 
With  an  involuntary  ah  ! 

I  could  scarce  believe  my  eyes, 
But  it  was  a  strong  cigar .' 

Inglorious  I  awoke. 

To  find  my  dreams  all  end  in  smoke. 


Oife. 


THE    IDEAL    OF    A    TRUE    LIFE. 

Tuioiti:  is,  even  on  this  side  the  grave,  a  haven  v  here 
the  storms  of  life  break  not,  or  are  felt  but  in  gentle 
undulations  of  the  unripplcd  and  mirroring  waters  — 
an  oasis,  not  In  the  desert,  but  beyond  it  —  a  rest,  pro- 
found and  blissful  as  that  of  the  soldier  returned  for- 
ever from  the  dangers,  the  hiudships,  and  turmoil  of 
war,  to  the  bosom  of  that  dear  domestic  circle,  whose 


<  THE    IDEAL    OF    A    TRUE    LIFE.  105 

\     blessings  he  never  prized  at  haK  their  worth  till  he  lost 
(     them. 

!  This  haven,  this  oasis,  this  rest,  is  a  serene  and  hale 
J  old  age.  The  tired  traveller  has  abandoned  the  dusty, 
s  croAvded,  and  jostUng  highway  of  life,  for  one  of  its 
^  shadiest  and  least  noted  by-lanes.  The  din  of  traffic 
I  and  of  worldly  strife  has  no  longer  magic  for  his  ear  — 
i  the  myriad  footfall  on  the  city's  stony  walks  is  but 
noise  or  nothing  to  him  noAV.  He  has  run  his  race  of 
toil,  or  trade,  or  ambition.  His  day's  work  is  accom- 
plished, and  he  has  come  home  to  enjoy,  tranquU  and 
unharrassed,  the  splendor  of  the  sunset,  the  milder 
glories  of  late  evening.  Ask  not  whether  he  has  or 
has  not  been  successful,  according  to  the  vulgar  stand- 
ard of  success.  What  matters  it  now  whether  the 
multitude  has  dragged  his  chariot,  rending  the  au-  with 
idolizing  acclamations,  or  howled  like  wolves  on  his 
track,  as  he  fled  by  night  from  the  fury  of  those  he 
had  Avasted  his  vigor  to  serA-e  r  "What  avails  it  that 
broad  lands  have  rcAvarded  liis  toU,  or  that  all  has,  at 
the  last  moment,  been  stricken  from  his  grasp  ?  Ask 
not  whether  he  brings  into  retirement  the  Avealth  of  ^ 
the  Indies  or  the  poverty  of  a  bankrupt  —  Avhcthcr  his  \ 
couch  be  of  down  or  rushes  —  his  dAveUing  a  hut  or  a  i 
mansion.  He  has  lived  to  little  purpose  indeed,  if  he  i 
has  not  long  since  reaUzed  that  Avealth  and  renoAvn  are  I 
not  the  true  ends  of  exertion,  nor  their  absence  the  \ 
conchisive   proof  of  iU-fortune.      Whoever    seeks  to     \ 

■m 


/ 


106  THE    IDEAL    OF    A    THUE    I.IFK.  j 

know  if  his  career  has  been  prosperous  and  brightening  \ 
from  its  outset  to  its  close  —  if  the  cvcnini;  of  his  l 
days  shall  be  genial  and  blissful  —  should  ask  not  for  | 
broad  acres,  or  towering  edihces,  or  laden  coffers.  ' 
Perverted  old  age  may  grasp  these  m  ith  the  unyield-  l 
ing  clutch  of  insanity ;  but  they  add  to  liis  cares  and  ; 
anxieties,  not  to  his  enjoyments.  Ask  rather,  "Has  \ 
he  mastered  and  harmonized  las  erring  passions  r "  ? 
"  Has  he  lived  a  true  life  ?  "  \ 

A  true  life  !  Of  how  many  lives  does  each  hour  \ 
knell  the  conclusion,  and  how  few  of  them  arc  true  i 
ones  !  The  poor  child  of  shame,  and  sin,  and  crime,  | 
who  terminates  her  earthly  being  in  the  clouded  morn-  i 
ing  of  her  scarce  budded,  yet  blighted  existence  —  the  I 
desperate  felon,  whose  blood  Ls  shed  by  the  community,  i 
as  the  dread  penalty  of  its  violated  laAv  —  the  miser-  5 
able  debauchee,  who  totters  down  to  his  loathson\e 
grave  in  the  springtime  of  his  years,  but  the  fulness 
of  his  festering  iniquities  — these,  the  world  valiantly 
affirms,  have  not  lived  true  lives !  Pcarlcss  and  right- 
eous world  !  how  profound,  liow  discriminating  arc 
thy  judgments  !  IJut  the  ba.se  idolater  of  self,  who 
devotes  all  his  moments,  his  energies,  his  thoughts,  to 
schemes  wliich  begin  and  end  in  jicrsontd  advantage  — 
the  grasper  of  gold,  and  lands,  and  tenements  —  the 
devotee  of  pleasure  —  the  man  of  ignoble  and  sinister 
ambition  —  the  woman  of  frivolity,  e.Ktravagaiue,  and 
fashion  —  the  idler,  tlie  gambler,  the  voluptuoi-y  —  on 


i  THE    IDEAL    OF    A    TRUE    LIFE.  107 


I  all  these  and  their  myriad  compeers,  -while  borne  on 
\  the  crest  of  the  advancing  billo-\v,  how  gentle  is  the 
]  reproof,  how  charitable  the  judgment  of  the  world  ! 
I  Nay,  is  not  even  our  dead  Christianity,  which  picks  its 
I  w-ay  so  daintily,  cautiously,  and  inoffensively,  through 
;:  the  midst  of  slave-holding,  and  drunkard-making,  and 
national  faith-breaking,  which  regards  with  gentle 
rebuke,  and  is  regarded  with  amiable  toleration  by 
some  of  the  foremost  vices  of  the  times,  —  is  it  not  too 
]  often  oblivious  of  its  paramount  duty  to  teach  men 
I  how  to  live  worthily  and  nobly  ?  Are  there  not  thou- 
(  sands  to  whom  its  inculcations,  so  far  as  duties  to  man 
>  are  concerned,  are  substantially  negative  in  their  char- 
',  aeter  ?  who  are  fortified  by  its  teachings,  in  the  bcHef 
\  that  to  do  good  is  a  casualty,  and  not  a  frame  of  being 
f  —  who  are  taught  by  it  to  feed  the  hungry,  and  clothe 
;  the  naked,  when  they  thrust  them,selves  upon  the 
charity  of  portly  affluence,  but  as  an  irksome  duty,  for 


^  which  they  should  be  rewarded,  rather  than  a  blessed 

i  privilege,  for  which  they  should  be  profoundly  grate- 

:  ful  ?     Of  the  millions  now   weekly  listening  to   the 

\  ministrations  of  the  Christian  pulpit,  how  many  arc 

'<  clearly,  vividly  impressed  with  the  great  truth,  that 

(  each,  in  his  own  sphere,   shoTiId  live  for  mankind,  as 

s  Christ  did,  for  the  redemption,  instruction,  and  exalta- 

t  tion  of  the  race,  and  that  the  power  to  do  this  in  his 

'.  proper  sphere  abides  equally  with  the  humblest  as  the 

]  highest :     How  many  centuries  more  -will  be  required 

m 


11  .^ 

I       108  THE    IDEAL    OF    A    TUUE    LIFE. 

to  teach  even  the  religious  -world,   so  called,  the  full 
meaning  of  the  term  Curistiax  ? 

A  true  life  must  be  simple  in  all  its  elements.  An- 
imated by  one  grand  and  ennobling  impulse,  all  lesser  j 
aspirations  find  their  proper  places  in  harmonious  sub-  i 
servience.  Simplicity  in  taste,  in  appetite,  in  habits  of  j 
life,  Vvath  a  corresponding  indifference  to  Avorldly  hon-  ', 
ors  and  aggrandizement,  is  the  naturid  result  of  the  < 
predominance  of  a  divine  and  unselfish  idea.  Under 
the  guidance  of  such  a  sentiment,  virtue  is  not  an 
effort,  but  a  law  of  nature,  like  gra-vitation.  It  is  vice 
alone  that  seems  unaccountable  —  monstrous  —  well 
nigh  miraculous.  Purity  is  felt  to  be  as  neccssarj"  to 
the  mind  as  health  to  the  body,  and  its  absence  alike 
the  inevitable  source  of  pain. 

A  true  life  must  be  cahn.  A  life  imperfectly  di- 
rected is  made  -vvrotched  through  distraction.  We 
give  up  our  youth  to  excitement,  and  wonder  that  a 
decrepit  old  age  steals  upon  us  so  soon.  A\'e  wear  out 
our  energies  in  strife  for  gold  or  fame,  and  lueu  won- 
der alilte  at  the  cost  and  tlie  worthlcssnoss  of  the  ' 
meed.  "  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat  ?  "  Ay,  truly  ! 
but  how  few  have  practically,  consistently,  so  regiu'ded 
I  it?  And  little  as  it  is  regarded  by  the  impcrfecily  vir- 
j  tuous,  how  much  less  by  the  vicious  and  tlic  world- 
i  ling  !  What  a  chaos  of  struggling  emotions  is  exlab- 
<  itcd  by  the  lives  of  tlie  multitude  !  How  lUic  to  tlie 
i     wars  of  the  infuriated  aniniidcula'  in  a  niagnilicd  ilrop 


<  THE    IDKAL    Ol-     A    TIIIE    LIFE.  109 


Horace  Orecley. 


of  water,  is  the  strife  constantly  -v\-agecl  in  each  little  \ 
mind  ?  How  Sloth  is  jostled  by  Gluttony,  and  Piide  j 
•wrestled  with  by  Avarice,  and  Ostentation  bearded  by  \ 
'i  Cleanness  !  The  soul  which  is  not  large  enough  for  c 
\  the  indwellhig  of  one  vktue,  affords  lodgment,  and  ', 
\  scope,  and  arena  for  a  hundi-ed  vices.  But  their  war-  ; 
<  tare  cannot  be  indulged  Avith  impuiiity.  Agitation  and  \ 
5  ■WTetchedncss  are  the  inevitable  consequences,  in  the  '-. 
inidst  of  wliich  the  flame  of  life  burns  flarmgly  and  ] 
\     swiftly  to  its  close.  \ 

I  A  triie  life  must  be  genial  and  joyous.  Tell  me  not, 
pale  anchorite,  of  your  ceaseless  vigUs,  your  fastings, 
yoiir  scourgings.  These  are  fit  offerings  to  Moloch, 
iiot  to  Our  Father.  The  man  who  is  not  hapi:)y  in  the 
\  path  he  has  chosen,  may  be  very  sure  he  has  chosen 
^  amiss,  or  is  self-deceived.  But  not  merely  happier,  — 
>  he  should  be  kinder,  gentler,  and  more  elastic  in  sj^irits, 
^  as  well  as  firmer  and  truer.  '♦  I  love  God  and  little 
\  cluldren,"  says  a  German  poet.  The  good  are  ever 
attracted  and  made  happier  by  the  presence  of  the 
innocent  and  lovely  ;  and  he  who  finds  his  religion 
averse  to,  or  a  restraint  vipon,  the  truly  innocent  pleas- 
ures and  gaycties  of  life,  so  that  the  latter  do  not  inter- 
fere with,  and  jar  upon,  its  sublimer  objects,  may  well 
doubt  whether  he  has  indeed  "learned  of  Jesus." 


v-^^v. -^g 


110  THE    SPIRIT    OF    POESY. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    POESY. 

Natuke  is  full  of  poctiy  ; 

'Tis  breathing  every  -where  ; 
It  speaketh  from  the  far,  blue  sea. 

From  the  mUd  and  summer  air. 

Its  voice  is  heard  among  the  stars, 
In  the  hushed  midnight  sky, 

And  in  the  ■wildly  moaning  blast, 
"NNTien  the  tempest  rushes  by. 

It  floateth  on  the  zephyr's  Ming, 

Around  the  lonely  tomb  ; 
It  springeth  forth  all  joyously 

Amid  the  spring  flo-wcrs'  bloom. 

It  rests  among  the  twilight  clouds, 
And  hallows  that  calm  hour  ; 

It  broodcth  o'er  the  haunts  of  men, 
With  soft,  entrancing  power. 

It  mingles  in  the  child's  pure  thought. 
And  in  the  youth's  bright  dreams  ; 

It  tinges  all  earth's  loveliest  tilings 
With  heaven's  own  radiant  bciunn. 


) 


THE    IXDIAX    SUMMER.  Ill 

Sjjirit  of  Song  !  yve  hail  thy  might, 

Pcn'adiag  all  our  earth  ; 
For  thou  dost  teach  us  that  the  soul 

Is  of  immortal  birth. 

"  Clara,"  (JVcw  Hampton.) 


THE    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

'Tis  autumn  ;  and  the  stricken  leaves 
Are  falling  from  the  mournful  trees  ; 
Yet  as  the  swan  her  sweetest  notes 
TrUls  forth  as  unto  death  she  floats. 
Or  as  the  dolphin's  dj-rng  throes 
A  thousand  watery  tints  disclose, 
So  with  the  trees,  e'er  yet  they  cast 
Their  summer  raiment  to  the  blast. 
Lest  man  should  tu-e  of  endless  green, 

They  summon  forth  aU  nature's  powers, 
Vying  to  grace  the  changing  scene, 

To  reign  the  beUc  a  few  short  hours. 
Thus  'tis  with  aU  on  cai-th  below  ; 

Our  sweets  but  come  at  close  of  day  ; 
They  come,  and  then  as  quickly  go  ; 

They  go  when  most  we  wish  their  stay. 


m- 


} 

'/       112  OLD    M.VX     OF    THK    MOUNTAIN. 


In  gorgeous  hues  the  forests  dress, 
Then  smiling  seek  the  sun's  caress  ; 
lie,  like  a  youth  in  manhood's  pride, 
Gazmg  upon  liis  blushing  bride, 
Smiles  brightly  from  the  ether  blue, 
And  every  beauty  charms  anew. 
The  -winds  -withdi'a-w,  no  cloud  is  seen, 
The  Lidian  Summer  reigns  supreme  ! 
'Tis  passing  sweet  —  the  loveliest  time 

Of  all  the  year.     It  seems  to  me 
I  -would  not  change  our  varied  clime 

For  sunniest  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
What  though  'tis  changeful?     Every  change 

Shows  paths  of  beauty  still  untrod. 
Through  which  the  tireless  mind  may  range, 

And  bless  its  freedom  —  bless  its  God. 

M.  J.  II. 


OLD    MAN    O  I-'    T  11  E    M  O  U  X  T  A  I  N  . 

(jiOANric  size,  unfallcu  still  that  crest ! 
rrimeval  d\\  cller  v  here  tlic  wild  winds  rc.-'t  I 
13oyond  the  ken  of  mortal  e'er  to  tell 
^\■l;!lt  jHANcr  sustninw  thcc  in  thy  rock-bound  cell. 

Or  if,  when  erst  I'rcation  vast  began, 
And  loud  the  universal  Rat  ran, 


\ 


OLD    MAN    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN".  113 

"  Let  there  be  liglit !  "  —  from,  chaos  dark  set  free, 

Ye  rose,  a  monument  of  Deity  !  j 

Proud  from  yon  cloud-crowned  height   thou  peerest     | 
i  forth  •  I 

On  insignificance,  that  peoples  earth  —  | 

Recalling  oft  the  bitter  drug  which  turns 
The  mind  to  meditate  on  what  it  learns. 

Stern,  passionless,  no  soul  those  looks  betray. 
Though  kindred  rocks,  to  sport  at  mortal  clay  — 
LDic  to  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor's  art, 
"  Play  round  the  head,  but  come  not  to  the  heart." 

Ah  !  who  can  fathom  thee  r     Ambitioixs  man. 
Like  a  trained  falcon  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Guided  and  led,  can  never  reach  to  thee 
With  e'en  the  strength  of  weakness—  vanity  ! 


Great  as  thou  art,  and  paralleled  by  none. 
Admired  by  all,  still  art  thou  drear  and  lone  ! 
The  moon  looks  dowTi  upon  thine  exiled  height ; 
The  stars,  so  mildly,  spiritually  bright, 

On  wings  of  morning  gladly  fiit  away, 
To  mix  with  their  more  genial,  mighty  ray  ; 
The  white  waves  kiss  the  miirmuring  rill ; 
But  thy  deep  silence  is  unbroken  still. 

.Vrs.  Mary  M.  Olovcr,  (Sanbomton.) 


lU  OUILLA. 


0  R  I  L  L  A  . 

Yes,  thou  art  bright  and  beautiful, 

Though  but  of  lowly  birth  ; 
Thou  takest,  with  all  joyous  things, 

Thy  place  ujion  the  earth  ; 
Thy  voice  is  song,  thy  step  a  dance, 

Thy  cliildish  tasks  but  play  ; 
Thou  sportest  ■\\ith  the  birds  and  lambs. 

As  innocent  as  they. 

But  in  the  future  let  xis  look. 

For  that  which  thou  niay'st  hope  ; 
It  little  needs  divining  skill, 

Or  cast  of  horoscope  ; 
Thy  simjilc  garb  bespeaks  a  life 

Of  ill-reciuitcd  toil ; 
Thy  fate  has  linked  thee  to  a  band 

"Wlio  ceaseless  delve  and  moil. 

Thy  glowing  check,  tliy  brow  so  full, 

Thy  softly  brilliant  eye, 
Tell  me  how  deeply  thou  n\ust  share 

Our  woman's  destiny  ; 


OEILI.A.  115 

Tliou'lt  love  and  grieve,  but  still  through  all 

Thou'lt  haplessly  live  on, 
And  learn  how  life  will  Uuger  still, 

"When  all  its  joys  are  gone. 

Yes,  woman's  task  —  a  peasant's  v.ife 

I  there  before  thee  see, 
To  be  in  some  rude  hut  the  di-udge, 

Some  clo"mi's  divinity  ; 
To  rise  at  morn  with  early  siui, 

"With  dew,  and  opening  flowers, 
But  only  strive  to  break  thy  fast 

In  all  those  glorious  hours. 

Thy  southern  sun  his  radiant  warmth 

Above  thy  cot  shall  shed. 
And  thou'lt  rejoice,  because  thy  lire 

Need  not  so  oft  be  fed  ; 
Thy  clear,  bright  moon,  her  gentler  rays 

At  night  shall  o'er  thee  thi-ow  ; 
Thou'lt  bless  it  as  thine  only  lamp, 

AVhen  to  thy  rest  thou'lt  go. 

And  yet,  of  all  that's  high  and  pxire, 

Thou  shalt  not  be  divest, 
For  still  shall  beat  a  woman's  heart 

Warmly  within  thy  breast,  ] 


m- 


116 


FACTOKY    LIFE. 


Deeming  it  not  unworthy  lot 

To  live  for  others'  -weal, 
For  others'  sakes  to  sacrifice, 

To  sufFcr,  and  to  feel ;  — 

To  know  that  tlirough  thy  toil  and  care, 

Thy  strength,  thougli  weak  it  be, 
Ila-s  been  support  and  cheer  to  him 

WTio  guides  thy  destiny ; 
That  stUl,  though  poor  and  rude,  thou  hast 

A  share  in  many  a  heart ; 
That  peasant  mourners  o'er  thy  grave 

Will  weep  when  thou  depart. 

.Miss  H.  Farley. 


FACTORY    LIFE. 

\  Variovs  opinions  are  entcrtaincil  in  relation  to  the 

>  influence  of  factory  life  Some  e.\tol  it,  while  others 
\  speak  all  manner  of  evil  against  it.  But,  if  the  advan- 
I  tagcs  and  disadvantages,  tlie  lights  and  the  sliadcs, 
\  wore  dearly  set  forth,  it  would  apjiear  that  these  fac- 

>  tories  arc  neither  Paradise  nor  Pandemonium.    The  pic- 
ture may  be  overwrought,  or  otherwise. 

A  manufacturing  population  is  as  free,  as  independ- 
ent,  and  as  piu-e  as  any  clnss  under  the  sun.     But  it 


V  ^  ».  "v  ■>. -s  ^.  X  *s^  •^ 


m^ 


FACTORY    LIFE.  117       I 


is  not  pretended  that  they  are  exempt  from  the  evils 
incident  to  other  classes  of  labor.  The  mind  and  char- 
acter is  moiilded  and  fashioned,  to  a  great  extent,  by 
the  circumstances  Avliich  surround  them.  It  is  modi-  l 
lied  by  the  kind  of  employment  pursued,  by  the  ? 
facilities  for  performing  labor,  by  manners,  customs,  J 
by  a  limited  or  free  exercise  of  the  intellect,  and  the  | 
enjoyments  of  liberty.  \ 

This  is  illustrated  in  the  various  studies  and  pursuits  ? 
of  life.  The  study  of  mathematics  is  excellent  as  ^ 
\  discipline  for  the  mmd,  and  as  engendering  a  precise  ^ 
and  accurate  mode  of  thinking  and  reasoning.  Some  i 
kinds  of  employment  require  great  accuracy  of  thought  s 
and  attention,  while  the  occupation  itself,  in  turn,  ? 
reflects  back  upon  the  mind  its  o^-n  proper  influence.     \ 

The  farmer,  in  turning  the  furrows  in  his  field,  or 
repaii'ing  his  plough,  does  not  exorcise  the  critical 
acumen  and  skiU  of  the  machinist  in  fitting  the  com- 
phcatcd  parts  of  Iris  labor,  or  the  watclmiaker  in  \ 
atljusting  the  intricate  movements  of  the  watch.  But  ^ 
this  is  no  disparagement  to  the  farmer.  He  may  drink  < 
in  the  richest  influences  from  the  wavy  plain  and  glassy  > 
lake  ;  from  the  purliiig  brooks  and  pine-clad  moun-  < 
tain  ;  from  the  sports  of  the  woods  and  the  music  of 
birds  —  aU.  tending  to  urspire  the  mind  with  cheerful- 
ness, and  with  love  to  the  Maker  of  the  glorious 
works.  Such  scenes  and  such  enjoyments  are  not 
habitually  permitted  to  the  denizens  of  the  shop  and 


11' 


118  FACTORY    LIFE.  J 


\     mill.     'Tis   a   defect,   indeed,  and  must  be  othenvise 
\     supplied. 

But  the  intellect  and  the  feelings  have  not  alone  to 
do  in  the  matter.  Those  who  are  compelled  to  do  any 
kind  of  work  against  theii-  Avill,  are  apt  to  become  fret- 
ful and  discontented.  Those,  too,  who  are  domiuccred 
over  and  driven,  as  in  the  case  of  factory  operatives  in  '/ 
England,  and  hope  for  nothing  better,  exercise  but  ( 
Httle  discernment  or  self-control.  Managers  and  guar-  > 
dians  should  look  to  this.  If  they  would  have  re-  j 
spectful  and  trusty  persons  about  them,  they  must  { 
show  them  respect,  and  let  them  perceive  that  they  j 
have  confidence  in  their  talents  and  integrity.  < 

Locality  and  climate  also  produce  their  efiects.  The  ^ 
dweller  under  an  Italian  sky,  while  he  gazes  on  the  ' 
clear,  deep  vault  above  liim,  and  beholds  its  surpassing  > 
beauty,  catches  no  smidl  degree  of  that  poetic  ardor  | 
tliat  breathes  forth  in  the  spirit  and  heart  of  their  \ 
peoijlc  ;  for  who  can  "  bind  tlie  sweet  influences  of  | 
Pleiades,  or  loose  the  bands  of  Orion  r  "  s 

Convenient  tools,  implements,  and  machinery,  tend-  > 
ing  to  facilitate  the  performance  of  labor ;  fasluons, 
manners,  customs,  and  ardiitectural  disi)lay,  all,  like- 
wise, have  their  peculiar  and  appropriate  intiuencc. 
What  pleasing  emotions  iu:c  iuspii-ed  in  the  mind,  on 
i;  beholding,  at  a  sufficient  distance  for  the  mind  to  take 
I  in  the  full  idea,  some  grand  mul  beautiful  temple, 
I     massive  and  proportionate,  all  its  psuts  perfectly  bal- 


S  FACTORY    LIFE.  119 

) 

I  anced  and  harmonized,  sitting  upon  the  earth.  "  like  a 
thing  of  life,"  with  an  air  of  sublime  and  majestic 
repose  ! 

What  has  been  said  of  inanimate,  may  also  be  said 
of  livmg,  forms  of  beauty.  Who  does  not  feci  peculiar 
and  delightful  sensations  stirred  within  him,  when 
I  beholding  some  beauteous  specimen  of  angelic  hu- 
I  manity  —  a  creature  whom  God  himself  hath  made, 
young  and  fair,  whose  form  is  love,  whose  gaze  is  feel- 
ing, and  whose  every  appearance  waiTants  the  belief 
that  she  would  prove  a  successful  rival  even  for  the 
Medician  Venus  —  the  curved  Imes  of  whose  fine 
limbs  flow  into  each  other  m  a  continuous  sinuosity  of 
sweetness,  exliibiting  at  once  matchless  symmetry  and 
proportion,  and  with  a  countenance  radiant  with  affec- 
tion and  innocent  voluptuousness, 

"  Heaven  in  her  eye, 
In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love  " .' 

Who,   unless  they   be  frigid  indeed,    are  not   moved 
within  by  the  magic  power  of  human  beauty  ? 

And  now,  if  locality  and  climate  ;  if  the  beautiful  in 
nature  and  art ;  if  manners,  customs,  and  fashions,  all 
have  their  influence  upon  character,  for  good  or  for 
evil ;  if  the  pursuit  of  certain  sciences  have  a  tendency 
to  induce  exactness  in  mind,  may  it  not  be  fairly 
inferred,  that  fhose  employed  in  machine  shops  and 


120  FAREWELL    TO    SUMMER.  \ 

factories  experience  the  same  discipline  in  a  like  ten- 
dency and  degree  r  And  in  support  of  this,  it  may  be 
obsei-ved,  that  -when  persons,  both  male  and  female, 
coming  from  the  country  to  work  in  the  factory  — 
some  of  them  remarkable  for  nothing,  perhaps,  so 
much  as  their  loose  and  slovenly  method  of  performing 
their  labor  —  after  remaining  in  the  mill  a  few  years, 
have  become  the  very  reverse  ;  and,  on  returning  to 
theii-  homes,  have  carried  -vv^th  tliem,  into  their  house- 
holds, and  to  their  farms,  the  systematic  method  of 
doing  business  generated  by  factory  life. 

/.'.  B.  M.,  (^Manchester.) 


FAREWELL    TO    SUMMER. 

The  summer's  sun  is  setting. 
And  to-morrow's  ciu-ly  light 

"SVill  bring  again  sad  autumn, 
AVitli  frost  mv  liowers  to  blicht. 

o 

O,  give  to  me,  sweet  summer. 
In  tliy  Inst,  declining  day. 

Some  record  of  what  thou  hast  seen 
As  thine  houi-s  have  passed  away. 


W" 


■*.*W-N^*^N^\/N,«^P 


^„ 


FAKEWELL    TO    SUMMER.  121 

Daylight  is  almost  ended  — 

Shall  I  have  no  reply  ? 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  a  gentle  voice. 

And  it  wliispers  with  a  sigh  ;  — 

"  Maiden,  sweet  roses  for  thee  I  brought 
To  gladden  thy  heai't,  and  sadden  it  not ; 
Yet  know,  that  thy  life,  though  happy  it  be, 
Has  thorns  with  the  roses  entwined  for  thee. 

"  'Tis  eighteen  summers  since  first  we  met  — 
As  I  loved  thee  then,  I  love  thee  yet ; 
StUl  gladly  Avith  thee  my  joys  I'd  share, 
To  lighten  thy  heart  of  sorrow  and  care. 

"  The  sweet  birds  still  in  harmony  sing, 
And  flowers  still  wear  the  fragrance  of  spring ; 
But  birds  and  flowers,  of  me  they  do  tell  — 
Would  you  know  more  ?  ask  them  —  fare  thee  well." 

Farewell  to  thee,  sweet  summer  — 

I  grieve  to  say  farewell ; 
But  stiU  I'll  keep  thy  sunshine 

Within  my  heart  to  dwell. 

And  though  chill  autumn  cometh, 

As  the  changing  seasons  roll, 

I'll  strive  to  keep  unclouded 

The  summer  of  the  soul. 

"  Ella  May,"  (Rumney.) 


11 


122  THE    AUTUMN    BOSE. 


THE    AUTUMN    ROSE. 

I  SAAV,  one  bright  autumnal  day. 

A  beauteous  rcsc  unfold. 
And  to  a  genial  sim  display 

A  bosom  decked  with  gold  ; 
I  gazed  upon  the  lovely  tio%ver  > 

With  raptiu-ous  delight,  c 

And  thought  its  charms  had  spell  of  power 

To  make  even  winter  bright. 

I  -wished  that  autumn  rose  so  fair 

In  radiance  long  might  bloom. 
And  shed  through  the  surrounding  air 

Its  beauty  and  iJcrfume. 
Vain  wish  1  for  on  its  ruddiness 

Soon  fell  a  withering  blast ; 
It  drooped,  and  all  its  loveliness 

Died  ere  the  day  was  past ! 

So  pass  earth's  fiurest  llowei's  away, 

So  dies  the  piuent's  joy  ; 
As  clouds  obscure  the  brightest  day. 

And  griefs  the  heart  annoy  ; 


LAST    WISHES    OF    A    CHILD.  123 

But  there's  a  balm  for  souls  oppressed, 

A  hope  the  heart  to  stay ; 
A  bosom  where  the  head  may  rest, 

While  tears  are  wiped  away. 

Thrice  hapj)y  they  who  can  repose, 

In  calm  and  holy  trust, 
On  Ilim  who  wept  for  others'  woes. 

Who  raised  the  sleeping  dust ; 
Who  in  a  glorious  robe  of  white 

Ai-rays  the  blood-bought  soul. 
And  bids  it  rest  in  realms  of  light. 

While  endless  ages  roll ! 

JUary  S.  Patterson. 


LAST    WISHES     OF    A    CHILD, 

"  All  the  hedges  are  in  bloom. 

And  the  warm  west  'v\ind  is  blowing ; 
Let  me  leave  this  stifled  room, 

liCt  me  go  wlicrc  flowers  are  gro'N^'ing. 

"  Look,  my  cheek  is  thin  and  pale, 
And  my  pulse  is  very  low  ; 
Ere  my  sight  begins  to  fail, 
Take  my  hand,  and  let  us  go. 


^■!^ 


! 

124  TO    A    SISTER. 


"  Was  not  that  the  robin's  song,  J 

Piping  through  the  casement  -wide  ?  j 

I  shall  not  be  listening  long  —  5 

Take  me  to  the  meadow  side  !  ' 

"  Lead  me  to  the  AN-illow  brook  — 
Let  me  hear  the  merry  mill ; 
On  the  orchard  I  must  look, 
Ere  my  beating  heart  is  still. 

"  Faint  and  fainter  grows  my  brcatli  — 
Bear  me  quickly  down  the  lane  ; 
Mother  dear,  this  chill  is  death  ! 
I  shall  never  speak  again." 

"  Still  the  hedges  are  in  bloom, 

And  the  -warm  west  wmd  is  blowing, 
Still  we  sit  in  silent  gloom  — 

O'er  her  grave  the  grass  is  growing. 

Jumes  T.  Fields. 


TO    A    SISTER. 


PouoET  nie  not,  wlien  I  aiu  i'ar  away 

In  other  climes,  and  the  blue  sea  between  ; 

Give  me  a  passing  thought  at  close  ol'  day, 
As  forth  thou  wandorost  in  our  garden  green. 


woman's   influence.  125 

Think  that  a  sorrow  may  o'ercloud  my  brow, 

And  heaviness  of  heart  weigh  me  to  earth, 
Far  in  a  stranger  land,  with  none  like  thou 

To  check  the  darker  thoughts  which  then  have  biith. 
Think  of  the  early  days  when,  hand  in  hand, 

We  roved  the  green  banks  of  the  Merrimack, 
And  wrote  our  names  upon  the  wave-washed  sand, 

And  saUcd  our  boats  far  do-^Ti  his  winding  track. 
By  those  bright,  happy  days  of  old,  wUt  thou 

Cease  not  to  think  of  him  that's  far  away. 
And  lovingly,  an  angel  then  as  now. 

Forget  not  for  the  errant  boy  to  pray. 
And  I,  witlun  the  festive  hall,  and  round 

Of  gaycty,  may  banish  thee  a  while  ; 
But  soon  as  that  is  passed,  and  dies  the  sound 

Of  mirthfulncss,  the  bitter  scornfiil  smile 
Thou'dst  pity,  when  I  sUcntly  compare 

The  joys  just  passed  with  those  that  would  be  mine, 
Were  we  again  to  breathe  our  native  air 

Together,  as  in  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

J-  M.  Fletcher,  (JVashiia.) 


WOMAN'S    INFLUENCE. 

Woman  has  been  compared  to  a  floweret  springing  m 
the  path  of  man,  which,  by  its  lovely  tints  and  gentle 

11* 


126  ■NVOM.VN's    IXFLUEN'CE.  ( 

fragrance,  beguiles  him  of  life's  rough  pilgrimage,  and  j 

teaches  him  to  forget  the  sorrows  of  a  -wayfarer  through  5 

an  inhospitable  -world.     She  has  been  called  the  har2>,  \ 

■whose  soft  miisic  can  lull  the  stormy  passions  of  the  S 

human  breast,  and  "  lay  discord  to  rest  on  the  pillow  I 

of  peace."     She   has  been  Hkeued  to   that  one   star,  I 

■whose    ray  is  a  guiding  light  to  the   tempest- tossed  i 

mariner.     Her  appellations  have  been  the  fireside  orua-  | 

ment — the  presiding  deity  in  the  temple  of  home —  i 
j     the  china  vase  among  the  stone  ware  of  humanity. 
^         She  may  be  one  or  all  of  these ;  yet  it  is  cliicfly  as 
5     a  moral  agent,  as  the  gentle  minister  of  virtue,  that  the 

>  line  gold  of  her  character  ai^pcars.     Since  the  Ught  of 
<     Christianity  has  dawned  upon  man,   and   shown  him  < 

>  tliat  his  highest  happiness,  as  well  as  his  true  greatness  ; 
J  < 
i     and  glory,   is  intimately  interwoven  with  the  dignity  i 

i  and  character  of  woman,  her  influence  has  been  grad-  < 
/  uaUy  gaining  new  accessions  of  strength,  till  at  length  } 
^  it  has  been  felt  in  every  land  and  every  clime.  s 
True,  we  do  not  And  her,  like  Joan  of  Arc,  or  Mar- 
garet of  Anjou,  heading  victorious  troops  on  the  field  ] 
of  battle,  making  her  voice  to  be  lieard  above  the  din 
of  the  war-strife  and  tlie  dying  groans  of  thousands. 
She  is  not  found  in  the  stormy  debate  of  the  senate  \ 
chamber,  nor  do  wc  li:<ten  to  her  eloquence  from  the  < 
pulpit  or  the  rostrum,  or  hciu-  of  licr  intemperate  zcid  \ 
\     for   the   success   of  rival   and  ambitious  demagogues,  j 

>  But  is  it  the  noisy  pnrtisiui,  whose  voice  rouses  and  ; 

k 


woman's  ixfluence.  127 

kindles  the  passions  of  the  multitiide,  blinding  them  to 
the  dictates  of  sober  reason  and  unbiased  judgment  ? 
Is  it  the  conquerer  of  nations,  whose  single  -will  is  the 
talisman  of  the  thousands  who  follow  him  to  the  field 
of  carnage  and  death  r  Yea  ;  is  it  the  preaclier  who 
weekly  meets  liis  congregation  in  the  temple  of  the 
Most  High,  from  whose  lips  fall  the  pearls  of  wisdom, 
as  he  nnfolds  the  treasures  of  the  "  book  of  books  "  — 
is  it  these  who  exert  an  influence  of  that  constant  and 
habitual  character,  that  alone  can  exercise  a  controlling 
power  over  human  conduct,  or  move  the  springs  of 
society  r  No  ;  this  belongs  to  the  ministry  of  woman 
—  enlightened,  intelligent  woman. 

But  it  has  been  said,  that  man,  from  his  coming  in 
contact  and  collision  with  a  greater  mass  of  mind,  must 
of  necessity  be  the  chief  agent  in  effecting  revolution 
and  reform.  Is  it  indeed  so  r  If  we  look  into  the 
natm-al  world,  do  we  not  find  that  nature  accomplishes 
her  most  wonderful  and  astonishing  results  by  the 
most  noiseless  agents  —  by  the  most  silent  and  imper- 
ceptible causes  ?  The  mUd  sunshine,  the  genial  atmos- 
phere, the  gentle  descending  shower,  are  employed  to 
transform  the  acorn  into  the  majestic  and  lordly  oak. 
It  owes  its  strength  in  the  tempest,  its  defiance  of  the 
whirl-nind,  not  to  the  mountain  torrent,  the  thunder's 
voice,  or  the  lightning's  bolt,  but  to  the  gentle  influ- 
ence of  maternal  nature.  The  diamond  derives  not  its 
existence  from  the  tempest's  fury,  the  hunicane's  com- 


128  woman's  infuience. 

motion,  or  the  cai'thquake's  shock  ;  but  to  the  silent 
agency  of  time  and  the  water  di-ops. 

The  whole  universe  is  bound  together  by  the  simple 
princiijle  of  gravitation  —  a  something  unseen,  un- 
heard, unnoticed,  yet  felt  to  the  remotest  bounds  of 
the  Creator's  empire.  Tlius  it  is  with  woman.  'Man 
may  cause  a  moral  tempest ;  he  may  shiikc  the  whole 
i  fabric  of  society ;  but  he  may  be  like  the  -wind  that 
I  lashes  into  foam  the  billows  of  the  ocean,  and  tosses  \ 
5     about  its  waves ;  but  'tis  the  sunshine  alone  that  pen-     I 

ti  ctrates  its  depths.  It  is  not  in  the  bustle  of  the  Avorld,  j 
in  the  diu  of  public  life,  that  man  arms  his  soul  for  ' 
.  conflict,  or  fortifies  liimself  in  those  principles  that  are 
)  to  be  his  anchor  in  misfortune.  No  ;  these  are  imbibed 
in  the  sanctuary  of  home,  and  learned  at  the  domestic 
fkesidc.  Thence  the  cliild  carries  with  him  those  sen- 
timents and  feelings,  that  are  to  sway  the  future  man, 
and  perhaps  stamp  the  character  of  his  age.  Oiu-  o^^^l 
Webster,  speaking  of  maternal  character,  says :  "  Some 
may  destroy  the  canvas  on  which  the  painter  has  be- 
stowed his  labor  —  the  marble  of  the  sculptor  may 
crumble  to  dust  —  but  woman  works  on  a  substance 
that  is  impressed  witli  tlie  seal  of  immortality." 

MUs  /..  .4.  Parker. 


m- 


^  STANZAS.  129 


STANZAS. 

I  TWINED  a  splendid  summer  wreath 

Of  scented  sprigs,  and  blossoms  rare, 
And  placed  it,  with  its  morning  breath, 

Amid  the  tresses  of  my  hair ; 
But  ere  the  noontide  hours  had  past, 

Its  fragrance  sweet  and  bloom  were  gone ; 
The  chajjlct  from  my  brow  I  cast, 

To  seek  a  more  enduring  one. 

I  Avove  a  rich  and  bright  bouquet 

Of  all  the  choicest  garden  flowers. 
And  fondly  hoped  its  sweets  would  stay 

To  cheer  me  in  some  darker  hours ; 
I  looked  —  the  canker  worm  was  there  — 

A  dcci)- corroding  blight  had  spread 
Among  the  leaves,  once  fresh  and  fair : 

My  chosen  ones  were  dead. 

I  culled  a  plajit  of  simple  hue, 

Whose  opening  bud  had  caught  my  eye  ; 
Beside  a  gentle  stream  it  grew, 

Unheeded  by  the  passer  by  ; 


-SI 


130  STANZAS. 

I  bound  it  meekly  on  my  breast, 

And  storms  and  sunshine  went  and  came ; 

In  winter  shroud  the  earth  was  di-essed, 
Yet  still  it  lived  and  smiled  the  same. 

The  flowers  that  drooped  in  morning  beams, 

They  smiled  upon  my  heart  in  vain  ; 
Like  fairy  shapes  in  early  di'cams, 

Alas  !  they  ne'er  revived  again. 
Those  sweeter  ones  were  friends  beloved, 

AVhosc  ties  affection's  hand  had  wound  ; 
But  friendsliip's  vows  deficient  proved, 

And  death  the  kindred  bands  unbound. 

That  simple  jilaut,  whose  cheering  po-vvovs 

Throiigh  all  life's  fleeting  scenes  are  given. 
That  soothes  us  in  our  saddest  hoiirs. 

Is  humble,  childlike,  trust  in  Heaven. 
The  dearest  hopes  of  youth  may  fade. 

And  friends  may  change,  and  kindi-ed  die  ; 
But  i/tis  shall  lend  its  kindly  aid, 

And  cliase  the  tear  from  son'ow's  eye. 

Helen,  (JUanehtster.) 


MAN    IS    NOT    "WHAT    HE    WILLS.  131 


MAN     IS    NOT    WHAT    HE    WILLS. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills ;  the  very  sky- 
Hath  not  a  powerless  cloud,  but  looketh  down 

In  meek  compassion,  as  it  floateth  by, 
On  us,  born  stibjects  of  a  smile  or  frown. 

There's  not  an  upstart,  vagrant  wind  but  drives 
His  pa.ssive  spirit  on  its  lightest  breath  ; 

The  unsincwed  giant  so  no  longer  strives. 

Though  o'er  his  maddened  eye  careers  the  shakened 
death. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  and  O,  'tis  joy, 

That  not  a  spell-clad  spirit  is  his  foe  ; 
No  liloodless  wizard,  patient  to  destroy. 

Binds  on  the  fatal  ring,  the  charm  of  woe  ! 
For  age,  the  magic  circle  when  it  breaks. 

Goes  up  with  fleeing  sj-mphonies  on  high  ; 
And  a  wild  thrill  of  ecstasy  awakes. 

Above  the  grief  that  mourns  his  lost  captivity. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  for  from  above. 

And  from  beneath,  the  thwarting  currents  roll. 

And  nature's  mighty  magazine  of  love 
Ten  thousand  times  shall  overcome  his  soul. 


-H 


^      132  MAN     IS    JfOT    Vi'llXT    UE    WILLS. 

^    And  wheresoe'er  his  chosen  path  shall  tend, 

5         His  charmed  footsteps  keejj  but  half  the  way  ; 

i    A  cloud,  a  sound,  a  very  flower,  shall  send 

An  overfloA\-ing  flood,  and  bear  him  wide  astray. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  hast  thou  not  seen 

The  stern,  strong  face  unbrace  itself  again, 
When  a  soft  breath  went  by,  with  thoughts  between 

That  never  touched  his  iron  soul  till  then  r 
The  harsh,  deteiinined  ^-isage,  how  it  teUs 

A  sudden  tale  of  years  long  past  and  gone  ! 
The  worldly,  i-ugged  bosom,  how  it  swells 

With  quick  o'ercoming  tides,  from  Youth's  far  ocean 
drawn  I 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  the  simple  child, 

That  panting,  hunts  the  dreamy  butterfly, 
Doth  pause  at  sudden,  of  his  jirey  beguiled, 

A  smitten  victim  of  the  western  sky, 
When  o'er  the  burning  hills  it  takes  the  sun 

To  that  briglit  place  of  happiness  and  gold  ; 
And  as  he  turns  away,  the  lesson  done, 

He  goes  another  child,  by  other  thoughts  controlled. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills ;  the  time  hath  been, 

When  he,  whase  hand  doth  whet  the  midnight  steel, 

Hatli  bowed  his  head,  all  gray  with  age  and  sin. 
To  hear  the  hamlet  bell's  sweet  distant  peal. 


■m 


l' 


MAN    IS    XOT    WHAT    HE    WILLS.  133 

He  had  not  cared  to  hear,  but  in  Ms  breast 

Were  things  of  kindred  with  that  human  sound ; 

The  answering  memories  break  their  long,  long  rest. 
And  thought  and  tcai-s  are  born,  and  penitence  pro- 
found. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  uncounted  powers 

Beset  each  single  footstep  of  his  way, 
And,  like  the  guardian  spirits  of  the  flowers, 

Charm  each  niaUgnant,  poisonous  breath  away  ; 
And  so  by  guileless  things  is  man  beguiled, 

And  sweetly  chastened  in  his  earthly  will. 
While  every  thwarting  leaves  him  more  a  child. 

With  childlike  sense  of  good,  and  childlilie  dread  of 
ill. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  a  deep  amen 

O'ercomes  the  grateful  spirit  as  it  hears ; 
"  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done,"  it  breathes  again 

To  Him  that  sits  above  the  circling  years. 
The  weak  doth  find  supporters,  and  the  blind 

A  faith  that  will  not  ask  an  earthly  eye, 
To  see  the  goings  of  the  eternal  mind, 

When  clouds  and  darkness  bear  his  moving  throne 

on  high. 

Leonard  Stoain,  (J\nishua.) 


a- 

134  THE    THREE    VISIONS. 


THE    THREE    VISIONS. 

I  HAD  a  glo-\ving  vision, 

I  kno-\v  not  ■whence  it  came, 
But  it  burned  within  my  veiled  heart, 

liikc  a  consuming  flame. 
And  fierce  and  wild  the  strange  desire 

It  kindled  in  my  breast, 
A  struggling,  pent-up  lava-fire 

That  -would  not  let  me  rest ; 
For  wildly  in  my  si>irit  burned 

A  haunting  thii-st  for  fame, 
Till  every  other  hope  I  spurned. 

To  win  a  glorious  name. 
A  strengtli  to  labor  and  endure 

Awoke  within  my  soul ;  — 
'Twas  but  to  fix  the  standard  sure. 

And  to  attain  the  goal. 
To  the  woak  lioart  that  quenchless  flame 

Gave  vigor  not  its  own  — 
But  the  dream  faded  as  it  came. 

And  I  was  left  alone. 

I  had  a  hccotuI  vision,  — 
It  was  a  blessed  one,  — 


THE    THREE    VISIONS.  135 

Bright  as  upon  a  stormy  sea 

The  day-smile  of  the  sun. 
Kind,  loving  voices  greeted  me,  i 

And  starrj'-,  gentle  eyes. 
In  whose  dear  light  there  seemed  to  be 

An  opening  paradise. 
For  weary  years  I'd  dwelt  apart 

In  the  cold  homes  of  men,  i 

But  the  loving,  trusting,  childlike  heart  | 

Was  with  mc  even  then.  > 

I  fancied  that  no  bitterness 

Could  chill  my  spirit  more, 
And  felt,  in  this  new  blessedness, 

I  had  not  lived  before. 
That  blessed  vision  faded 

In  mist  and  tears  away  — 
The  light  of  life  seemed  shaded. 

When  it  was  gone,  for  aye. 


I  had  a  third  sweet  vision. 

Most  blessed  of  the  three. 
For  angels,  from  their  thrones  of  light, 

Looked  lovingly  on  me. 
I  thought  to  see  it  fade  away. 

It  was  so  bright  and  fair  ; 
But,  clear  as  in  the  earlier  day. 

It  still  abideth  there ; 


136 


THE    AXGEL'S    -whisper. 


And  ever  in  my  soul  I  dream 

I  hear  their  rapturous  song. 
O,  all  too  real  doth  it  seem 

To  be  a  vision  long. 
Sweet,  earnest,  spirit-beaming  eyes 

Upon  uiy  pathway  shine, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  from  the  skies, 

Forever  bent  on  mine  ; 
And  gently  a  beloved  hand 

Doth  lead  me  ever  on 
Unto  the  blessed  silent  land. 

Where  Faith  and  Love  are  gone. 

"  loiif,"  (Plymoiilh.) 


THE    ANGEL'S    WHISPER. 


There  was  silence  in  heaven.  The  song,  that  had 
echoed  in  strains  of  such  entrancing  sweetness  ai'ound 
f  the  throne  of  the  Eternal,  was  for  n  moment  hushed. 
5  There  was  no  sound  in  Paradise,  save  when  tlie  golden 
\  lyre  of  some  glorified  spirit  thrilled  faintly,  Juul  sent 
I  fortli  a  low,  melodious  note,  as  if  unwilling  to  cense  its 
\  musical  breathings. 
>         Tlic  liosts  of  the   bettor  laud  —  myriads   of    nngcls 


BJ- 


i 


THE  angel's  ■whisper.                        137  ] 

and  archangels  knelt  humble  around  the  "  G)-eat  I  Am,"  \ 

■with  their  pinions  folded  and  then-  heads  bo^wcd  in  rev-  > 

erence  to  Hun  at  -whose  command  a  holy  stillness  now  >' 

reigned  throughout  the  spirit- world.  j 

A  vast,  ay,  and  a  glorious  assemblage  was  that :  yet  > 

one  Avhite-robed  form,  that  was  wont  to  mingle  in  the  >. 

throng,  was   absent ;  a  divine   commission   had  been  \ 

given  him,  and  now  he  winged  his  way  to  the  world  > 

below.     Eagerly  the  angel  bands  watched  him  as  he  ! 

sped  far,  far  on  his  earthward  flight ;  and  Avhcn  at  length  ; 

he  paused  above  a  scene  of  wretchedness,  and  a  harp-  I 

note  of  celestial  sweetness  came  faintly  to  their  ears,  ! 

they  cast  then-  fadeless  diadems  at  the  feet  of  the  Infi-  \ 

nite,  and  cried,  "  Hallelujah  to  the  Lamb  who  has  saved  > 

us,  and  still  continueth  to  save."  • 

To  the  sad  and  the  sorrowing,    to  the   guilty   and  i 

erring  of  earth,  had  God  sent  the  messenger  of  mercy  ;  { 

and  Avhen  the  music  of  his  song  floated  to  the  realms  I 

above,  he  paused  above  a  low  couch,  on  which  reclined  > 
a  dying  boy.  A  bright-haired  lad  he  was,  who  had 
beheld  the  stonns  and  sunshine  of  only  ten  short  years. 
He  had  been  gay  and  joyous,  as  childhood  ever  is  ;  but 
now  the  light  of  his  sunny  eye  had  grown  dim,  and 
his  merry  laugh  went  forth  no  more  on  the  summer 
ah.  There  was  a  feverish  flush  on  his  rounded  cheek, 
and  his  full  lips  were  parched  -with  the  burning  breath 
of  disease.  Beside  him  stood  a  pale,  sad  woman  —  his 
mother  —  his   widowed  mother.      There    was  an   ex- 


12  * 


TUE    AXGEL  S     WlUSriiil 


prcssion  of  inteiiso  .siift'eriiig  on  her  face,  and  the  tears 
gushed  to  her  eyes  ^\  hen  she  smoothed  back  the  golden 
ringlets  from  liis  brow.  Nearer  and  nearer  Ktill  drew 
the  heaven-sent  messenger,  and  more  intently  gazed  lie 
on  the  form,  in  whiih,  like  a  pcnt-iip  bird,  the  sonl 
■was  panting  to  be  free.  At  length  tlie  lad's  eye  bright-  ^ 
ened ;  a  rich  crimson  flushed  his  cheek,  and  the  small  ; 
liand,  clasped  in  the  mother's,  trembled  convulsively,  ' 
as  thus  he  spok(; :  —  } 

"  I  see  tlic  seraph,  mother !  Let  me  —  C),  let  me  ; 
go  !  "  and  the  voice  died  away  like  the  low  thrill  of 
a  lute-tone  —  the  eyelids  dropped  lovingly  over  those 
i  calm,  pure  orbs  —  the  crimson  faded  from  the  cheek  — 
I  tho  boy  Jiad  heard  the  atu/el's  whisper,  and  the  mother  sat 
I     alone  with  the  dead. 

'.  Hours  went  by ;  midnight  brooded  o'er  the  earth, 
{  and  the  stars,  like  spirits'  eyes,  looked  down  ujion  the 
I  widow's  lioine.  Beside  her  boy  the  mother  knelt,  with 
\  her  hands  clinched  across  her  motionless  breast,  and 
I  her  cheek  pressed  to  his,  as  if  to  warm  it  into  life  ;  but 
no  mother's  power  could  wake  the  dead. 

Still  clasped  tlie  mother  to  her  boy  ;  but  tlie  wild 
and  unnatural  light  in  lier  eye  too  plainly  told  tluit 
grief  was  struggling  for  the  mastery  of  reason.  The 
spirit  came  near  —  softly  lie  struck  one  chord  of  his 
celestiid  lyre,  tlicii  niiui^U'd  a  low  whisiier  willi  the 
J  thrilling  strain.  Suddenly  a  smile  came  o'er  tlie  face  s 
5     of  the  widow  ;  she  clasped  the  corse  of  her  son  more     J 


g- 


THE    WIFE    TO    IIEK    HUSBAXD. 


139 


nervoxisly  —  a  slight  tremor  conruLsed  her  Kmbs  —  she 
had  Jieard  tlie  anget s  -whisper — instant  her  soul  •was 
■with  him  over  whom  she  had  mourned. 

Martha  A.  Q'ovgh. 


THE    WIFE    TO    HER    HUSBAND 

Methikks  the  sun  is  brighter,  darling, 

Than  it  -was  a  year  ago ; 
The  flowers  wear  a  richer  color, 

And  time  moves  not  so  slow. 
This  earth  that  I  have  looked  upon 

Since  first  I  saw  the  light  — 
Sure  it  is  fresher,  lovelier,  now. 

Than  when  first  spake  from  night. 


The  song  of  birds  is  sweeter,  darling, 

Than  it  was  a  year  this  time  ; 
The  music  of  the  waters  flowing 

Ilath  the  melody  of  chime. 
The  surtsct  wears  a  richer  hue 

Than  when  I  gazed  alone. 
And  the  moon  that  used  to  look  so  cold 

Has  very  pleasant  grown. 


\     140 


THE    WIFE    TO    HER    HUSBAND. 

And  sure  the  heart  that  worshipped  thee, 

A  whole  long  year  ago, 
Still  tui-ns  to  thee,  its  idol-altar, 

And  bums  its  incense  low. 
The  world  has  nought  to  charm  away 

From  willing  worship  given  : 
AVhy  should  the  spirit  stoop  to  earth. 

That  rested  once  in  heaven  ? 

Our  sky  is  fair  —  no  sorrows,  darling, 

Have  dimmed  its  glory  yet ; 
And  in  its  blue,  so  brightly  shining 

There  are  no  warnings  set. 
Yet  for  all  this  we  lie  not  down 

To  sleep,  when  done  is  life, 
"Without  the  drinking  of  the  cup, 

Without  the  bitter  strife. 

Eartli  never  licld  the  favored  one 

Whom  sorrow  has  not  known  ; 
Whose  cup  has  not  been  running  o'er 

With  bitter  draughts  nlonc : 
And  yet  the  cup  our  Father  gives 

Shall  we  not  diink  ?     In  vain 
The  sujiplicating  cry  goes  up, 

"  Spaie  us,  O  (jod,  this  pain  !  " 

Yet  wliy  grieve  now  ?  Our  hearts,  my  darling, 
Will  not  grow  cold  in  need  ; 


i 

( 


A    DREAM    OF    LOVE.  141 

"We'll  not  forget  the  promise  given 

When  the  sun  was  overhead. 
Its  truth  shall  lead  us  on  through  life, 

An  angel  in  earth-guise  : 
Shall  it  not  guide  us  to  that  land  — 

Its  home  —  beyond  the  skies  ? 

Mrs.  C.  S.  Ooodale,  [Manchester.) 


A    DREAM    OF    LOVE. 

I  HAD  a  dream  —  not  all  a  dream, 

For  'twas  a  bright  foretaste  of  heaven  — 
A  cup  of  bliss  —  diAdnc  —  supreme  ! 

The  sweetest  cup  to  mortals  given. 
But  ah  !  that  dream  has  passed  away  ; 

Its  lovely  fancies  all  have  fled, 
And  in  the  tomb  neglected  lie,  — 

Xo  flowers  are  blooming  o'er  the  dead. 

But  then  its  spirit,  lingering  yet 

Around  the  home  where  once  it  d■\^•cit, 

Bids  me  be  true,  and  ne'er  forget 

The  beauteous  shrine  where  I  have  knelt. 

O,  could  those  hours  again  return. 
And  I  once  more  their  pleasure  know. 


SI~ 


142  A    DREAM    OF    LOVE. 

Life's  glimmering  torch  ■would  brighter  burn, 
And  I  should  feel  the  less  of  woe. 

Yes,  there  she  stands,  that  loved  one,  now, 

That  angel  guide  of  boyhood's  hours, 
And  circling  round  that  peerless  brow, 

A  coronal  of  fading  flowers. 
O,  truthful  emblem  of  my  heart ! 

Too  soon,  like  them,  it  drooped  and  died. 
As  iiowcrs  from  their  parent  stem 

Depart  —  it  perished  by  her  side. 

The  radiance  of  her  lustrous  eye 

Was  brighter  than  the  evening  star  ; 
Her  voice,  like  faky's  gentle  sigh 

\Vhen  borne  upon  the  zephyr's  car, 
AVas  softer  than  the  breath  of  even 

Which  floats  among  the  summer  bowers  — 
Was  sweeter  than  the  dews  of  heaven 

Which  fall  at  night  upon  the  flowers. 

We  met  —  wo  loved  —  we  meet  no  more  :     % 

I  left  my  love  long  yesu-s  before  — 

Our  bUssful  dream  was  (juickly  o'er, 

But  long  has  been  the  pang  of  woe. 

I've  trod  life's  deserts  since  alone  ; 

\  No  cheering  hope  —  no  gladsome  ray  — 

<  No  heart  in  unison  with  my  own, 

>  To  cheer  mo  on  my  lonesome  way. 

\  J^.  Hiifht,  {lluldenuis.) 


.    THAT    SAME    OLD    GIRL.  143 


THAT    SAME    OLD    GIRL. 

Theue  doth  she  sit  —  that  same  old  girl 

Whom  I  in  boyhood  knew  ; 
She  seems  a  fixture  to  the  church, 

In  that  old  jail-like  pew  ! 

Once  she  was  young  —  a  blooming  miss  — 

So  do  the  aged  say  ; 
Though  e'en  in  youth,  I  think,  she  must 

Have  had  an  okl-Uke  way. 

How  prim,  and  starched,  and  kind  she  looks, 

And  so  devout  and  staid 
I  wonder  some  old  bachelor 

Don't  wed  that  good  old  maid  ! 

She  does  not  look  so  very  old, 
•    Though  years  and  years  are  by 
Since  any  younger  she  has  seemed, 
E'en  to  my  boyhood's  eye. 

That  old  straw  bonnet  she  has  on, 

Tied  with  that  bow  of  blue. 
Seems  not  to  feel  Time's  cankering  hand,  — 

'Tis  "  near  as  good  as  new." 


144 


I     LOVE    A    LACGH. 


The  old  silk  gown  —  the  square-toed  shoes  — 
Those  gloves  —  that  buckle's  gleam, 

That  silver  buckle  at  her  Avaist, 
To  me  like  old  frientls  seem. 

Live  on  —  live  on  —  and  may  the  years 

Touch  lightly  on  thy  brow  ; 
As  I  beheld  thee  in  my  youth, 

And  as  I  see  thee  wow,  — 

May  I,  when  age  its  furrows  deep 

Has  ploughed  upon  my  cheek, 
Behold  thee  in  that  pew,  unchanged, 

So  prim,  so  mild,  so  meek  ! 

B.  B.  Frcnth. 


I    LOVE    A    LAUGH. 


I  LOVE  a  laugh,  a  wihl,  guy  laugh, 

Fresh  from  the  fount  of  feeling,  * 

That  speaks  a  heart  enshrined  within, 
Its  joy  revealing. 

I  love  a  laugh,  a  a\  ild,  guy  laugh  ; 

(),  wlio  would  always  sorrow, 
And  wear  a  sad  and  woful  face. 

And  fear  the  morrow  ? 


ORATOKY  145 

I  love  a  laugh  —  this  world  would  be, 

At  best,  a  dreary  dwelling, 
If  heart  could  never  speak  to  heart, 
Its  pleasure  telling. 

I  love  a  laugh  —  it  cheers  the  heart 

Of  age,  bowed  down  with  sadness, 
To  hear  the  music  in  the  tones 

Of  childliood's  gladness. 

Then  frown  not  at  a  vnld,  gay  laugh, 

Or  chide  the  merry-hearted  ; 
A  cheerful  heart  aiid  smiling  face 

Should  ne'er  be  parted. 

"  Effic  jyiay." 


ORATORY. 


History  is  the  chart  of  the  deliberative  orator.  It 
reveals  to  him  the  quicksands  and  rocks  where  the 
hopes  of  empires  have  been  wrecked.  It  reveals  the 
;  sources  of  prosperitv,  the  som-ces  of  misfortune.  To 
>  him  who  can  read  it,  it  offers  the  suggestions  of  two 
I  hundred  generations.  It  bids  us  beware  of  the  follies 
I  of  dead  nations.  To  every  individual  it  offers,  some- 
<     where  among  its  records,  encouragement  to  great  and 


13 


'>     146 


OUATORY. 


good  deeds.  It  is  from  an  ignorance  of  what  has  been, 
that  men  commit  so  many  mistakes,  and  that  the  same 
error,  after  a  larger  or  smaller  cycle,  returns  again,  like 
the  forgotten  fashions  of  our  fathers. 

Man  acts  according  to  his  belief.  He  believes  in  al- 
chemy; and  with  haggard  visage  and  wasted  sinews 
toils  in  dark  caverns,  in  the  vain  hope  of  transmuting 
the  worthless  into  the  precious  metals.  He  believes  in 
a  fountain  which  gives  perpetual  youth  ;  and  straight- 
way—  such  is  the  record  of  history  —  embarks  for 
unexplored  lands,  searches  •\^•ith  an  energy  which  com- 
mands respect  in  spite  of  the  folly,  and  pushes  on  his 
rugged  pilgrimage  with  an  enterprise  worthy  of  the  \ 
best  cause.  He  believes  in  the  insufficiency  of  his  omti 
judgment  in  matters  of  religion,  in  the  divinely  ap- 
pouited  supremacy  of  the  |)ricstliood,  and  for  centuries 
commits  his  conscience  and  his  faith  to  liis  spiritual  ad- 
visers. He  believes  that  the  Bible  is  the  only  and  suffi- 
cient rule  of  faith  and  practice,  that  he  may  and  must 
examine  it,  and  immediately  he  produces  the  Reforma- 
tion. 

Poetry  cultivates  the  imagination.  The  j)rovincc  of 
the  imagination  is  not  to  separate  truth  from  error,  but 
"  to  render  all  objects  instinct  with  the  inspired  breath 
of  human  passion."'  It  docs  not  dehiand  if  things  be  $ 
true  independently,  but  ifthoylu-  true  in  tlu-ir  relation  \ 
to  other  things.  It  docs  not  discover,  but  enlivens.  It  s 
melts  together,  into  one  burning  mass,  the  discordant     \ 


-81 


ORATORT.  147 

materials  thro-\vn  into  its  crucible.  Like  the  colored 
light  of  sunset,  it  bathes  in  its  own  hue  ■whatever  it 
touches.  Discarding  technical  rules,  as  from  its  natiu-e 
averse  to  them,  it  adapts  means  to  varj-ing  circum- 
stances, and  seizing  upon  the  hearts  of  the  audience,  in 
aid  of  belief  or  in  spite  of  belief,  buids  them  in  willing 
captivity.  It  annihilates  space  and  time,  brings  the 
distant  near,  draws  together  the  past  and  the  future 
into  the  jjresent.  It  warms  the  heart  of  the  orator. 
He  then  speaks  because  he  feels,  not  in  order  that  he 
may  feel.  The  influence  flows  from  -within,  outward,  — 
not  from  without,  inward.  It  tears  the  orator  from 
considerations  of  himself,  bears  hun  above  liimself, 
above  rule,  criticism,  apology,  audience,  every  thing 
but  the  subject.  The  orator  stands  like  an  enchanter 
in  the  midst  of  spirits  that  are  too  mighty  for  him.  He 
alone  could  evoke  them  from  the  dark  abyss  ;  but  even 
he  is  but  half  their  master.  He  alone  can  demand  the 
secrets  of  futurity ;  but  then  he  can  speak  only  the 
Avords  that  they  give  him.  He  inspires  others  only  as 
he  is  inspired  himself. 

Logic  is  necessary  for  that  severe  form  of  speech 
wliich  carries  power  in  its  front,  and,  by  its  very  calm- 
ness and  repression  of  earth-born  passions,  seems  to 
belong  to  a  higher  sphere.  It  must  form  the  bone  and 
muscle  of  an  extended  discourse.  Imagination  clothes 
the  skeleton  with  beauty ;  breathes  health  into  the  rigid 
muscles  ;  lights  up  the  eye ;  loosens  the  tongue  ;  excites 


148  OUATOKY. 

that  rapid  and  vehement  declamation  which  makes 
the  speaker  to  be  forgotten ;  the  subject,  and  the  subject 
only,  to  be  thought  of ;  betrays  no  presence  of  art,  be-  > 
cause,  in  fact,  art  is  swallowed  up  in  the  whirlpool  of 
excited  feeling.  Besides,  there  are  truths  with  which 
logic  has  no  concern ;  "  truths  which  walic  to  perish 
never  ;  "  truths  to  be  directly  apprehended,  as  well  as 
I  truths  to  be  i>roved ;  feelings,  as  well  iis  facts.  Love, 
?  and  passion,  and  fear  laugh  at  demonstration.  "Logic," 
\  says  one,  "  is  good,  but  not  the  best.  The  irrcfraga- 
$  blc  doctor,  with  his  chains  of  inductions,  his  corolla- 
\  ries,  dilemmas,  and  other  cunning  logical  diagrams  and 
>  apparatus,  will  cast  you  a  beautiful  horoscope,  and 
'^  speali  you  reasonable  things  ;  nevertheless,  the  stolen 
i  jewel  which  you  wanted  him  to  lind  you,  is  not  forth- 
;  coming.  Often  by  sonio  winged  word  —  winged  as  the 
\  thunderbolt  is  —  of  a  Luther,  a  Napoleon,  a  Goethe, 
i  shall  we  see  the  difficulty  split  asunder,  and  its  secret 
i  laid  baie ;  while  the  Irrefragable,  with  all  his  logical 
\  roots,  hews  at  it,  and  hovers  round  it,  and  finds  it  on 
I     aU  sides  too  hard  for  him." 

Poetry  not  only  oifers  ns  the  language  of  emotion, 
but  produces  emotion,  and  emotion  eUcits  thouglit.  It 
has  been  well  remarked  of  the  groat  English  dramatist, 
that  ho  has  been  true  to  nature,  in  placing  the  "  greater 
number  of  liis  profoiindcst  maxims  a:id  general  truths, 
<  both  politicid  and  moral,  not  in  the  mouths  of  men  at 
\     ease,  but  of  men  under  the  influence  of  passion,  when 


m- 


ORATOIIY.  149 

the  mighty  thoughts  overmaster  and  become  the  ty- 
rants of  the  mind  which  has  brought  them  forth." 
Then  the  mind  rushes,  by  intaition,  upon  the  truth ; 
scorns  subtle  and  useless  distinctions  ;  disregards  en- 
tirely  the  husk,  seizes  and  appropriates   the   kernel. 

Emotion  in  the  speaker  produces  emotion  in  the  hearer.  \ 

You  must  feel,  you  must  sympathize  with  him.     Your  S 

mind  darts,  with  the  speaker's,  right  through  the  tex-  \ 

tures  which  cover  up  the  subject,  and  grasps  the  heart  ! 

of  it.     How  deadening  are  the  words  of  some  passion-  ' 

less  men  !     Lilce  a  duU  mass  of  inert  matter,  their  life-  , 

less  thought  stretches   across  the  path  of  your  spirit.  *> 

Different,  indeed,  are  the  words  of  another,  to  whom  ', 

> 

has  been  given  some  spark  of  ethereal  fire.     His  words  | 

become  to  you  a  law  of  Hfe.     They  start  your  skiggish  \ 

spirit  from  its  dull  equilibrium,  and  its  living  wheels  \ 

shall  thenceforth  move  whithersoever  the  spu-it  that  is  | 

in  them  moves.     Rarely  has  been  found  that  combina-  > 

tion  of  quahties  necessary  to  the  greatest  orator,  —  ; 

dignity,  enthusiasm,  wit,  the  power  of  sarcasm,  the 

power  of  soothing,  philosophy  which  does  not  despise 

imagination,    imagination  w^hich   does   not  spurn  the  \ 

restraints  of  philosophy.  \ 

Such  should  be  the  studies  of  the  orator.     The  great  \ 

orator   must  be   a   great  man,  —  a  severe  student  in  ^ 

> 

broad  and  deep  studies.     He  must  thoroughly  know  \ 

his  materials,  his  models,  the  history  of  his  race,  and,  5 

most  of  all,  the  heart  within  him.     Then  shall  he  have 


13 


150 


AlTr.MN'. 


power  to  struggle  in  the  noblest  contest  —  that  of 
mind  with  mind,  —  for  the  noblest  object  —  the  weU- 
beuig  of  his  race. 

Samuel  O.  Broirn. 


AUTUMN. 


I  LOVE  the  dews  of  night ; 

I  love  the  howling  wind  ; 
I  love  to  hear  the  tempests  sweep 
O'er  the  billows  of  the  deep  ! 
For  nature's  saddest  scenes  delight 

Tlic  melancholy  mind. 

Autumn  !  I  love  tliy  bower, 
With  faded  garlands  dressed  ; 

How  sweet  alone  to  linger  there 

When  tempests  ride  the  midnight  air  ! 

To  snatch  from  mirth  a  fleeting  hour. 
The  Sabbatli  of  the  breast  ! 


Autumn  !  I  love  thee  well ; 

Though  bleak  thy  breezes  blow ; 
I  love  to  sec  the  vapors  rise. 
And  clouds  roll  Avildly  round  the  skies, 


FRIENDSHIP.  151 

Where  from  the  plain  the  mountaina  swell, 
And  foaming  torrents  flow. 

Autumn  !  thy  fading  flowers 

Droop  but  to  bloom  again  ; 
So  man,  though  doomed  to  grief  awhile, 
To  hang,  on  Fortune's  fickle  smUc, 
Shall  glow  in  heaven  with  nobler  powers, 

Nor  sigh  for  peace  in  vain. 

JV.  A,  Haven. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


How  sweet  the  tones  of  Friendship, 
When  borne  from  heart  to  heart 

Upon  life's  varying  breezes, 
Which  joy  and  grief  impart ! 

They  calm  dark  waves  of  sorrow 
Which  o'er  the  bosom  roll ; 

They  speak  of  joy  to-morrow, 
And  flowing  tears  control. 

Stni  purer  those  emotions, 

When  heart  with  heart  can  join 

In  pajing  their  devotions 

To  Heaven's  hallowed  shrine  ;  — 


l?t)-^^v^^*»^ 


8- 


152 


BEAUTY. 


-H 


When  faith,  our  vision  brightens, 

And  hope,  -with  anchor  sure, 
Earth's  purest  pleasure  heightens, 

And  heavenly  joys  seciue. 

"When  soul  with  soul  aspiring 

Above  these  gloomy  shades, 
And  eyes  with  joy  admiring 

That  cro\\Ti  wliich  never  fades. 

AVhat,  then,  though  death  should  threaten 

To  make  us  soon  his  prey, 
With  prospects  bright  for  heaven 

We'd  gladly  soar  away. 

Mrs.  D.  W.  Holt,  (Jfashua.) 


BEAUTY. 

What  is  beauty  ?  Do  the  lonturcs 
Finely  moulded,  fair  to  view, 

JIake  this  treasure  often  so\ight  for 
By  the  miuiy  ?     No  !   ah,  no. 

M'hnt  is  beauty  ■     Do  the  tresses 
Falling  o'er  the  lily  ncik, 

Either  of  the  golden  nnbiun, 
Or  the  gloBsy  raven  black, 


H^ 


■W 


BEAUTY.  153 

Form  the  beauty  that  is  ^vorthy 

Of  our  praises  and  esteem  : 
No  !  the  heart  that  -wears  them  may  be 

Filled  with  guile,  although  unseen. 

What  is  beauty  ?     Do  the  blushes 

On  the  lovely  maiden's  cheek, 
Vying  with  the  freshest  roses, 

Fomi  the  beauty  we  would  seek  ? 

No  !  the  blush  of  shame  it  may  be. 

Where,  then,  does  the  treasure  lie  ? 
Is  it  in  the  lip  of  ruby  — 

Is  it  in  the  sparkling  eye  r 

Or  does  art  give  graceful  beauty 

To  the  fair  and  fragile  form  ; 
Is  it  dress  that  makes  the  ■wearei 

Beautiful  to  look  upon  ? 

No  !  'tis  foUy  thus  to  seek  it. 

Thus  the  treasure  strive  to  win  ; 
Nothing  outward  sure  can  make  it  — 

Beauty  lies  enshrined  within. 

'Tis  the  mind  adorned  -with  graces 

That  contains  the  magic  prize  ; 
If  you  seek  it,  there  you'll  find  it. 

There  true,  real  beauty  lies. 

Caroline, 


a- 

154  BOOKS. 


BOOKS. 

Books  are  the  true  levellers.  They  give  to  all,  who  nght  faith- 
fully use  tlieiii,  the  society,  the  spiritual  i)resence,  of  the  best  and 
greatest  of  our  race.  —  Cluiuniiig. 

In  the  facility  for  tlic  acqiiisltion  and  preservation  of  ' 
knowledge,  the  present  age  excels  i\ll  others.  An- 
tiquity had  its  eras  of  art  and  refinement,  as  Egj'ptian 
monuments  plainly  demonstrate ;  but  the  press  did  not 
then  work  for  their  diffusion  and  perpetuity.  "When 
the  ruthless  calif  Omar  burned  the  Alexandrian  li- 
brary, the  world  met  ■v^•ith  a  loss,  which,  thanks  to  the 
sons  of  type,  can  never  bo  paralleled,  since  no  book, 
reflecting  the  science  of  past  or  coming  eras,  v.\\\  fail  to 
have  its  multitude  of  copies. 

Time  was,  too,  and  tliat  not  long  since,  •when  a  sin- 
gle newspaper  sufhccd  for  tlic  demand  in  America  ; 
while  now  the  name  is  Legion  of  those  leaves,  not  \ 
always  for  the  healing  of  the  nation,  which  arc  scat-  \ 
tercd  more  widely  than  those  from  ancient  Sibyls'  cav-  \ 
cm,  and  more  carefully  consulted  by  the  people  than  > 
ever  of  old  was  Delphi  ornde.  None  so  poor  that  he  | 
cannot  obtain  books.  Societies  for  the  gratuitous  j 
distribution  of  the  Bible,  eolportems  of  every  sort,  \ 
bring  knowledge  to  the  very  doors  of  the  jjcoplc,  and     \ 


^m 


BOOKS.  155 

almost  thrust  its  records  into  the  hands  of  the  un^vill- 
ing  or  slotliful.  True,  much  that  is  bad  finds  its  utter- 
ance in  tj'pc ;  but  thus  can  its  hideousness  best  be 
made  known,  since  the  appropriate  labor  of  sin  can 
only  safely  be  performed  in  darkness,  and  truth  will 
ever  gain  precedence,  as,  in  a  fair  and  equal  encounter, 
virtue  and  truth  need  fear  no  evil. 

But  amid  the  multiplicity  of  books,  much  care  as  to 
reading  and  selection  should  be  observed.  And  let 
me,  by  all  means,  urge  the  acquisition  of  a  taste  for 
good  reading.  I  say  acquisition,  for  it  is  not,  as  some 
suppose,  innate,  though  it  is  the  result  of  an  intensely 
inquiring  spirit,  more  or  less  the  property  of  every 
sound  mind.  But  the  very  alphabet  is  learned  often 
with  many  tears,  and  every  noteworthy  book  requires 
toil  of  the  brain,  which  is  the  hardest  of  all  labor. 
And  here  let  me  say  to  the  young  man  or  woman  who 
i  reads  these  pages,  lot  your  taste  be  for  e/ood  reading 
only.  I  do  not  mean  theologian  lore  alone.  I  wovild 
recommend  a  wide  and  liberal  course,  which  would 
include  all  which  is  truly  beautiful  in  poetry  or  fiction, 
but  exclude  all  mere  trash  and  sickly  sentimentalism. 

Read  hard  books  first  —  those  which  require  think- 
ing, rather  than  prove  labor-saving  machines  to  prevent 
its  necessity ;  those  which  suggest  more  even  than  they 
i  inculcate  of  thought  and  truth.  ITiere  yet  floats, 
'  like  scum  upon  the  surface  of  literature,  a  large 
'/     amount  of  worthless  books,  fitted  only  for  superficial 


156 


BOOKS. 


minds.  Let  the  ephemeral  productions  of  the  day 
pass  down  the  stream  to  oblivion's  ocean ;  but  drink 
oiily  of  the  clear,  deep  •svatcrs  of  knowledge,  which 
shall  be  to  you  the  cup  of  mental  life. 

Read  also  to  examine  and  discriminate.  Most  books 
contain  chaff  ■\\'ith  the  wlieat,  some  even  positive  e\"il 
mingled  with  the  good.  The  truth  makes  the  error 
with  which  it  stands  connected  live,  and  he  only  Avho 
possesses  discrimination  can  read  much  which  others 
should  leave  untouched.  Such  a  reader  only  can  walk 
unharmed  over  the  glowing  lava  of  thought  which 
poured  from  the  burning  and  brilliant  genius  of  By- 
ron ;  can  assay  the  beautiful,  because  natural  poetry  of 
Burns,  and  reject  the  dross,  while  he  retains  the  gold 
which  mingles  in  liis  vein  of  poetic  fancy  ;  can  drink  of 
the  si>arkhng,  but  not  always  undcfiled  fountain  of 
many  of  our  most  gifted  poets. 

There  should  be  wisdom  shown  in  the  selection  of 
books,  and  the  number  to  be  perused.  '*  Of  making 
many  books  there  is  no  end,"  and  rapid  and  ti'ansicnt 
enough  arc  tlie  many.  A  few  books,  well  road,  can 
make  one  better  learned,  witli  a  more  cultui'od  and 
refined  nund,  than  a  multitude  read  in  a  desultory 
manner,  as  men  con  words  when  they  should  follow 
and  grasp  thouglits.  There  is  a  motUal  dissipation,  as 
well  as  physical ;  an  intoxication  of  the  intellect,  as 
well  as  the  body  ;  and  our  moral  reformers  should  not 
spare  the  one,  wliilc  tliey  denounce  the  other.     Bad  as 


■m 


J  BOOKS.  157 


is  the  appetite  which  rejects  hcaltMul  viands  for  the 
■wine  cup,  or  closing  dainties,  the  taste  which  can  feed 
only  on  the  be■\^ildering  romance,  or  licentious  French 
novel,  is  no  less  evil ;  for 

'  Woe  to  the  youth,  wlien  Fancy  gains, 
Winning  from  Reason's  hands  the  reins." 

Imaginatioil  is  not  a  power  to  be  slighted,  but  should 
have  a  normal  development,  as  the  companion  and 
handmaid  of  reason.  | 

An  exact  course  of  reading  cannot  well  be  pointed  ^ 
out  to  the  young.  Often  what  would  be  judicioiis  for  I 
one,  would  be  deleterious  to  another.  The  matter-of-  ^ 
fact  man,  to  whom  the  world  of  imagination  seems 
utterly  closed,  would  do  well  to  balance  his  tastes  by 
reading  tlie  noble  romances  of  Scott,  the  works  of 
nature's  great  dramatist,  Shakspearc,  or  the  glori- 
l  ous  imaginings  of  Milton ;  else  is  he  in  danger  of 
<  becoming  hard  and  calculating,  and  wiU  thus  lose  all 
i  life's  ennobling  sentiment  —  its  lofty  ideal.  But  he 
\  who  is  naturally  enthusiastic  shoxdd  read  history,  and 
attend  to  the  exact  sciences,  for  years,  if  he  would  pre- 
serve sound  judgment,  entirely  refrainiag  from  the 
dangerous  realm  of  fancy,  the  beauteous  land  of  vision, 
thickly  set  with  its  airy  castles,  peopled  with  angels, 
I  whose  visits,  alas  !  save  in  romances,  arc  to  earth  "  few 
I  and  far  between."  There  are  some,  such  as  the  writings 
i     of  Dr.  Channing  and  Macaulay,  which  are  an  improve- 


■  s 


158 


BOOKS, 


ment  to  every  mind.  Different  as  these  writers  arc, 
yet  each  has  the  reality  of  life  united  with  grandeur  of 
thought,  and  beauty  of  expression. 

Nor  can  I  speak  of  reading,  and  fail  to  recommend 
to  every  youth,  nay,  every  immortal  being,  the  fre- 
quent perusal  of  that  Book  of  books,  -which  has  a 
charm  for  every  eye ;  balm  for  every  wound ;  solace 
for  every  affliction ;  aliment  for  the  nurture  of  every 
intellectual  power.  Do  men  love  poetry  ?  Then  let 
the  sublime  strains  of  Isaiah  and  David,  the  melan- 
choly breathings  of  Jeremiah,  or  that  liigWy-wrought 
poem  of  Job,  profitably  gratify  their  longings.  Do 
they  seek  the  calm,  clear  stream  of  pliilosophy  ?  Here- 
in is  the  highest  and  the  wisest,  its  commonplaces 
more  glorious  and  conformable  to  human  experience 
and  aspiration,  than  teachings  of  Socrates  or  Plato. 
Does  eloquence  charm  ?  Here  are  the  words  of  him 
who  spake  .is  never  man  spake,  the  addresses  of  one 
before  wliom  goveniors  trembled,  and  kiiigs  were 
almost  persuaded  to  become  Christians.  Above  all,  do 
men  search  for  truth  as  for  hid  treasures  ?  The  Bible 
is  its  inexhaustible  fountain,  and  they  who  drink 
thereat  arc  iilone  truly  wise,  because  aviso  unto  sal- 
vation. 

Pursue,  then,  a  judicious  coxirsc  of  reading,  of  wliich 
the  Bible  is  tlie  basis.  The  \iniversal  world  is  but  a 
mirror  of  the  world  within.  Attend,  then,  to  the  mind 
—  the  development  of  tlie  intellectual   and  spiritual 


BOOKS.  1.39 

nature.  "While  to  the  impure,  all  is  j^oor  and  vile,  he 
■who  hath  enlarged  the  domain  of  thought,  -whose  mind 
is  a  kuigdom,  he  can  trace  God's  handwriting  in 
nature's  great  book,  -with  glorious  lessons  on  its  every 
page.  He  communes  with  Natui-e,  for  science  and 
poetiy  have  taught  him  her  language.  The  stars  to 
hiin  are  not  shining  dust,  but  worlds  of  light  and  life. 
Life  is  not  petty  to  him,  for  grand  aud  noble  thoughts 
sweep  the  chords  of  his  heart,  till  they  sound  forth  in 
strains  of  harmony.  He  is  never  alone.  Shakspeare, 
and  Channing,  and  Milton,  are  his  companions.  He  is 
not  long  weary,  for  Dickens  and  Scott  charm  his  fatigue 
away;  never  hopelessly  sad,  for  prophet,  evangelist, 
and  his  Savior  teach  him  the  uses  of  disciplinary  events, 
and  make  him  rejoice  when  chastened ;  his  friends 
undying  and  unchangmg  —  never  negligent  or  absent ; 
for  from  his  book-shelves  they  come  at  his  bidding,  and 
give  utterance  to  those  glorious  thoughts  which  have, 
and  must  ever  move  the  literary  world. 

Ji    B.  Fuller,  (Manchester.') 


/  J 


160  TUEY     TELL    ME,    LOVE. 


IS 


THEY   TELL   ME,    LOVE. 

They  tell  mc,  love,  that  heavenly  form 
Was  fashioned  in  an  earthly  mould  ; 

That  once  each  limb  and  feature  warm 
Was  lifelesri  clay,  and  cold. 

And  the  old  nurse,  in  prating  mood, 

Vows  she  beheld  thy  babyhood. 

But  vain  the  specious  -web,  and  frail ; 

My  heart  can  a\cuvc  a  truer  tale. 

They  lured  a  radiant  angel  down. 
And  clipped  its  glorious  wings  away  ; 

They  bound  its  form  in  stays  and  gown, 
And  taught  It  here  to  stay, 

But  cavth  nor  art  could  e'er  efface 

Its  Rngol  form,  its  hoavonly  grace, 

And  wouldst  thou  deign  to  linger  licro, 
And  tread  with  mc  this  mortal  earth, 
A  gioup  of  charming  cherubs,  dear, 

Might  choor  our  hiimblc  hcorth. 
And  each  would  bo  —  nay,  do  not  lau^^li 
Angel  and  moj-tal,  half  and  half; 
And  every  pretty  dear,  when  vexed, 
AVould  cry  one  hour,  and  sing  tlie  next. 


VN/Vv*  •^  % 


THE    PHANTOM    FISHERMAN.  161 

But  O,  I  greatly  fear,  my  love, 

That  eai-thly  joys  would  all  be  vain  ; 

That  longing  much  for  things  above, 
The  plumes  would  grow  again  ; 

And  so  you  might,  some  pleasant  day, 

Take  to  your  wings  and  flee  away  ; 

I  shall  be  sorry,  if  you  do. 

But,  dearest  —  take  the  children  too  ! 

Horatio  Hale. 


THE    PHANTOM    FISHERMAN. 

A  PHANTOM  !  a  spu-it !  hast  heard  of  one, 
Restless  on  earth  —  in  the  air  —  or  the  sky, 

Weai-ily  wandering  under  the  sun. 

Close  where  the  waves  of  the  Merrimack  run  ? 
I  tell  thee,  go  watch,  ere  night  passes  by, 

'Tis  an  ancient  ghost,  whose  task  is  ne'er  done, 

A  quaint  wight  tells,  and  like  this  'tis  begun  :  — 

All  haggard,  and  weary,  and  Avan,  and  old. 
On  a  shelving  rock  the  fisherman  sat ; 

His  coat  was  brief  as  a  tale  that  is  told  ; 

His  grief-stricken  nose,  once  jolly  and  bold. 
Now  sadly  stuck  out  from  a  rimless  hat  — 

14  * 


162 


THE    PHANTOM    PISHEKMAN'. 


Often  he  sneezed,  like  a  man  ANith  a  cold, 
"While  the  damp  river  mist  over  him  rolled. 

Curling  and  sj^arkling  so  brightly,  so  red, 
There  blazed  a  fire  on  the  pebbly  shore. 
Fishing  and  Avishing,  and  nodding  his  head, 
Watching  for  eels  in  the  old  river's  bed. 

There  he  sat,  and  sat,  till  midnight  was  o'er, 
Patiently  heaving  the  line  and  the  lead. 
Patiently  watcliing  the  hook  where  it  sped. 

Xow  half  a  tear,  and  the  sound  of  a  sigh, 

Escape  on  the  air  so  heavy  and  damp. 
As  he  turns  his  gaze  on  the  cloudy  sky, 
Or  lists  to  the  wind  in  the  branches  nigh. 
Or  stirs  up  the  fire  of  his  waning  lamp 
"With  a  limb  of  pine  or  a  pitch-knot  dry,  — 
So  sat  the  old  man  till  morning  drew  nigh. 

The  Avatcr  splashed  over  his  half-bare  feet, 
And  merrily  laughed  at  liis  bootless  toil, 

Till  Manchester  spires  were  seen,  through  the  sleet, 

Plainly  to  wink  at  the  fisher's  defeat, 
As  slowly,  at  first,  in  the  sandy  soil, 

He  seemed  to  commence  an  unwilling  retreat, 

liikc  one  half  forced  to  give  it  up  beat. 

Over  hill,  o'er  dale,  till,  coming  to  where 
Piscataquog  meets  the  Merrimack's  wave, 


i 


THE    scholar's    DEATH.  163 

He  entered  a  shadowy  cabin  there  ; 
Warily  stepping,  with  caution  and  care, 

As  though  caution  and  care  himself  would  save, 
He  uttered  nor  word,  nor  oath,  nor  prayer. 
But  vanished  at  once  in  the  thin,  thin  air. 

Haunting  the  shores  of  the  ISIerrimack  still. 

The  ghost  of  a  fisherman,  slow  and  sad, 
Wishing  in  vain  to  drive  off,  at  his  will, 
The  uj)roar  and  din  —  the  noise  of  the  mUl  — 
Walks,  as  of  yore,  when,  a  young  lazy  lad, 
He  asked  for  no  work  but  his  net  to  fiU, 
No  rest  but  sleep  in  the  shade  of  the  hill. 

E. 


THE     SCHOLAR'S    DEATH 

The  scholar's  brilliant  light  is  dim. 

And  on  his  brow  death's  signet  set ; 
O,  many  an  eye  that  welcomed  him. 

With  sorrow's  burnmgtear  is  wet ! 
His  was  a  noble  heart  and  true,  — 

His  was  the  strong  and  gifted  mind ; 
And  fame  and  love  around  him  thi-ew 

Their  wreaths,  with  choicest  flowers  entwined. 


id- 

164  LITERATURE. 

His  mind  lay,  like  a  gem,  within 

A  fretted  and  a  slender  frame, 
Which  oft  it  buoyed  to  health  again. 

Unknowing  whence  the  healing  came. 
The  jewel  through  the  casket  frail 

Shone  with  a  clear  and  perfect  ray, 
As  if  its  light  would  never  pale 

Before  e'en  death's  triumphant  sway. 

He  wore  away ;  no  lovelier  clime, 

With  fairy  scenes  and  gentle  breeze,  — 

The  grandeur  of  the  ocean  chime,  — 
Italia's  skies  nor  India's  seas,  — 

Not  these  could  brace  his  wa.sting  frame,  — 
Nor  home,  with  all  its  memories  dear  : 

But  cabnly,  when  the  summons  came, 

His  soul  soared  to  a  brighter  sphere. 

J.  II.  Warland. 


LITE  II  A  T  U  R  E  . 

I  FEEL  awkward  at  attempting  to  touch  any  tiling 
literary.  Not  merely  that  I  make  chimsy  work,  but 
because  I  feel  doubtful  as  to  tlic  utility  of  promoting 
the  cultivulion  of  mere  letters.  For  what  is  literature, 
but  the  luxury  of  words  and  periods  ?     What  is  tlie 


\ 


g- 


LITERATUKE.  16'3 


use  of  it  ?     It  has  nothing  of  the  power  of  unlettered 

I  talk,  or  iUiterato  ■writiufi'  —  if  such  there  may  be.     It 

j  engenders   only   an   artificial  language,   that    nobody 

)  talks,  or  can  talk,  except  those  fictitious  creatures,  the 

?  scholai-s  —  and  they,  only  -when  they  arc  not  in  car- 

l  nest,  Allien  they  arc  learned,     Put  them  to  their  neces- 

\  sities,  and  they  'forget  their  book  style  —  their  eom- 

5  pound  words  and  their  constructed  periods  —  and  have 
to  talk  off  jiiat  like  any  body.  Literature  is  a  mere 
accomplishment,  intended  to  be  displayed  only  by  the 
idle.     It  is  like  the  parlor  furniture,  to  be  used  —  if  it 

<  can  be   called  ttse  —  only  by  company.     It  is  but  ped- 

>  antry,  in  its  best  estate.  True,  strong,  human  think- 
\  ing  don't  want  it,  and  can't  make  use  of  it  if  it  happen 
I  to  possess  it.  It  has,  in  fact,  to  get  rid  of  it  before  it 
\  can  make  the  natural  and  necessary  use   of  speech. 

>  Human  speech  is  of  ahnighty  power,  almost,  when 
\  unalloyed  by  learning.  And  yet  the  strong-minded, 
5  unlettered  man,    bows  reverently   before  the  helpless 

>  scholar.  It  is  a  grand  mistake.  This  literature  pro- 
'  duces  nothing  for  humanity.  It  originates  nothing, 
\  improves  nothing,  invents  nothing,  discovers  nothing. 
\  It  talks  hard  words  about  the  labor  of  others,  and  is 
J  reckoned  higher  and  more  meritorious  for  it  than 
'>  genius  and  labor  are  for  achieving  what  learning  can 
S  ovlv  descant  upon.  Learning  trades  on  the  capital  of 
\  unlettered  mind.     It  struts  in  solemn  plumage,  and  it 

>  is  mere  plumage.     A  learned  man  resembles  an  owl, 


166  LITERATURE. 

ill  more  respects  than  matter  of  wisdom.     Like  that 
solemn  bird,  he  is  about  all  feathers.  , 

Books,  and  their  -writers  —  of  what  consequence  to  \ 
i  humanity  are  either  of  them  r  They  arc  but  copies,  > 
and  resemblances  of  copies,  when  we  might  be  gaz-  \ 
ing  on  originals.  "Works  —  whole  Alexandrian  Ubra-  > 
ries  of  them  —  what  arc  they  good  for  ?  Common  \ 
sense  esteems  them  as  stubble.  They  arc  food  for  no-  | 
body  but  the  moth,  and  his  fellow-student,  the  book-  \ 
worm.  Some  old  invader  burnt  up  ever  so  many  of  | 
/  them,  in  a  famous  library,  long  ago,  I  believe  in 
Egyjit.  They  call  him  a  Vandal,  or  some  such  rude 
name,  for  it.  But  he  might  have  been  a  very  clever 
barbarian,  for  all  that.  I  -wish  he  had  burnt  nothing 
more  valuable,  viz.,  human  abodes  and  cultivated 
fields.  I  would  not  care  if  there  should  be  a  bonfire 
of  all  the  learned  libraries,  especially  the  divinity,  — 
and  that  would  burn  like  tinder,  most  of  it. 

Humanity  wants  precious  few  books  to  read,  but  the 
great,  living,  breathing,  immortal,  and  glorious  volume 
of  Providence.  "  The  proper  study  of  mankind  "  — 
that  this  is  "  man,"  and  God's  other  Avorks,  is  not  mere 
poetry.  There  is  truth  in  it  —  life  —  real  life  ;  liow  to 
live,  how  to  treat  one  another,  and  hoAV  to  trust  God  in 
matters  beyond  our  ken  and  occasion.  These  arc  the 
lessons  to  learn,  and  you  can  find  nothing  about  them 
in  the  libraries.  I  would  add  a  word  more  for  our 
literature,   but  toil-worn   nnti-slnvery   can  have  little 


THE    TWO    MAIDENS.  167 

leisxire  or  fancy  for  literature  while  a  sixth  of  the  coun- 
try welters  in  brute  slavery,  and  the  mass  of  the  other 
five  sixths  in  heartless  indifferency,  or  religious  rage,  at 
the  feeble  attempts  making  for  its  disenthralment. 
Literature  shows,  on  such  a  country,  like  the  marble 
gleams  on  a  whited  sepulchre,  or  like  finery  on  a  har- 
lot, —  and  the  gaudier  it  is,  the  more  painfully  unbe- 
coming. 

JV.  P.  Rogers. 


THE    TWO    MAIDENS. 

One  came  with  light  and  laughing  air. 
And  cheek  like  open  blossom  ; 

Bright  gems  were  twined  around  her  haii-. 
And  glittered  on  her  bosom  ; 

And  pearls  and  costly  diamonds  deck 

Her  round,  white  arms  and  lovely  neck. 

Like  summer's  sky,  with  stars  bedight, 
The  jewelled  robe  aroiind  her, 

And  dazzling  as  the  noontide  light 
The  radiant  zone  that  bound  her,  — 

And  pride  and  joy  were  in  her  eye, 

And  mortals  bowed  as  she  passed  by. 


168 


STANZA.S. 


m 


Another  came  —  o'er  her  sweet  face 

A  pensive  shade  was  stealing  ; 
Yet  there  no  grief  of  earth  v,e  trace, 

But  the  heaven-hallo-vved  feelin"- 
Which  mourns  tlic  heart  should  ever  stray 
From  the  pure  fount  of  truth  away. 

Around  her  brow,  as  snow-drop  fair. 

The  glossy  tresses  cluster, 
Nor  i^earl  nor  ornament  was  tlicre. 

Have  the  meek  spiiifs  lustre  ; 
And  faith  and  hope  beamed  in  her  eye, 
And  angels  bowed  as  she  passed  by. 

Sarah  Josepha  Hale 


S  T  A  N  Z  A  S  . 


All,  sister,  do  not  think  mc  sad, 

That  thou  hast  foiuid  me  weeping  j 
For  (),   the  spinl's  dream  is  |;lad. 

In  light  and  beauty  sleeping. 
O,  many  a  brow  wirh  llowers  is  wreatlicd, 

And  many  a  smile  is  gay, 
That  knows  )iot  luiU'  the  blessedness 

Whieli  (ills  tliis  heart  to-day. 


A 


< 

TO    A    BRIDE,  169       I 


For,  sister,  from  the  home  above, 

A  dream,  a  dream  of  heaven, 
Its  light  and  life,  its  peace  and  love, 

To  this  full  heart  is  given. 
From  many  a  scene,  in  -worlds  like  this. 

The  smile  of  mirth  may  glow, 
Bnt  'tis  the  -weight  of  perfect  bliss 

That  causeth  tears  to  flo-w. 

Sweet  sister,  I  have  foimd  a  charm. 
Than  Circe's  more  prevailing  ; 

It  giveth  e'en  the  storm  a  calm, 
And  strength  when  hope  is  failing. 

And  dost  thou  ask  the  secret  chaim  ? 
"NVouldst  try  its  magic  speU  ? 

It  is  the  deathless  trust  in  Him 


Who  doeth  all  things  well. 


•  lone' 


TO    A    BRIDE. 


Blessings  attend  thee  !  May's  thou  ne'er 
Be  called  to  shed  the  sorrowing  tear. 
Nor  ever  mourn 

15 


170  TO    A    BRIDE. 

O'er  youth's  sweet  hopes,  too  bright  to  last, 
O'er  morning  dreams,  fled  quickly  past, 
O'er  fond  heaits  torn. 

May  thy  pure  spirit  never  grieve 
O'er  hopes  that  flatter  to  deceive  — 

A  heartless  form ; 
But  may  thy  heart's  star  burn  stUl  true, 
And  safely  guide  thy  spirit  through 

Each  Avintry  storm. 

Be  happy  !    Tliough  dark  hours  may  come, 
Yet  ever,  through  the  misty  gloom, 

You  still  may  see 
Hope's  radiant  finger  pointing  high 
To  a  bright  liome  beyond  the  sky  — 

A  rest  for  thee. 

Be  happy  !     Though  misfortunes  lower, 
Let  no  dark  cloud  thy  mind  e'er  sour, 

But  every  day 
Greet  thy  loved  partner  A\-ith  a  smile, 
And  with  fond  words  of  hope  beguile 

The  weary  way. 

Hannah  M.  Bryant,  {Manchesttr.) 


-H 


BEAUTY    OF    LIGHT.  171 


BEAUTY    OF    LIGHT. 


Beautiful  to  the  believer  is  every  work  of  Nature.  \ 
To  him  there  is  a  loveliness  and  meaning  in  the  hiim- 

blest  herb,   and  smallest  insect ;    and  he  knows  that,  i 

whenever  beauty  meets  the  eye,  then  should  instruc-  j 

tion  go  to  the  heart.  < 

But  the  object  which  more  than  all  others  combines  < 

both  beauty   and  instruction,  is    light.     Beautiful  is  I 

light  when  it  shines  from  the  dazzling  sun,  and  beau-  '/ 

tiful  when  it  beams  from  the  milder  moon  ;  beautiful  I 

when  it   flashes   from  some  dark  thunder- cloud,  and  | 

beautiful  when  it  twinkles  from  myriads  of  evening  ; 

stars.      Beatitiful  is  it  Avhen  concentred  in   noonday  j 

clouds,  and  beautiful  when,  with  scarlet  and  purple,  it  | 

curtains  the  sunset  sky.     Beautiful  is  it  in  the  north,  I 

when  its  varying  colors  stream  upward  in  the  borealis ;  j 

and  beautiful  in  the  south,  when  it  reddens  the  mid-  > 

night  sky  from  seas  of  prairie  fire.  > 

Beautiful  is  light  when  it  crests  the  ocean  billow,  ! 

and  beautiful  ^hen  it  dances  on  the  rippling  stream-  \ 

let ;  beautiful  when  it  lies  like  a  silvery  robe  on  the  \ 

placid  lake,  and  beautiful  when  it  turns  the  foaming  ! 

surge  to  fretted  gold.    Beautiful  is  light  when  it  flashes  ; 


'       172  BEAUTY    OF    LIGHT.  ■ 


from  the  maiden's  eye,  and  beautiful  when  it  sparkles 
from  the  diamond  on  her  hand. 

Beautiful  are  the  varjing  hues  of  light,  as  they  flit 
and  change  on  the  -water-bubble,  and  beautiful  are  they 
■when  marshalled  in  the  rainbow.  Beautiful  is  the  light  J 
"VN'hich  gUstens  from  miUions  of  points  and  pinnacles  in  J 
arctic  glaciers,  and  beautiful  when  it  rests  like  a  glo-  < 
rious  crown  on  Alpine  mountains ;  and  beautiful  also  [ 
is  light,  when  it  breaks  through  forest  boughs,  and 
holds  Avild  play  with  the  flitting  shadow. 
\  Beautiful  are  the  coriiscations  of  light  in  the  labora- 
\  torv  of  the  chemist,  and  beautiful  is  the  fireside  light 
;;  when  friends  around  it  meet  in  that  dearest  of  all 
/  earth's  cherished  spots,  in  "  home,  sweet  home."  \ 
'  Beautiful  is  light  to  the  poor  man,  Avhen  it  comes  ] 
I  through  the  little  lattice  to  brighten  his  humble  cot, 
I  and  beautiful  to  the  prince,  when  it  streams  tlurough 
/  gilded  casements  to  illuminate  his  palace. 
\  Beautiful  is  the  light  of  morn  to  the  Persian  wor- 
\  shii^pcr,  and  beautiful  is  it  after  the  night-storm  to  the 
^  shipwrecked  mariner.  Beautiful  is  it  to  the  cliild  of 
\  guilt  or  affliction,  to  whom  the  night  can  bring  no  quiet 
I  rest ;  and  beautiful,  after  their  undisturbed  sleep,  is  it 
•,  to  all  beasts,  birds,  and  insects,  whose  morning  voices 
>     unite  in  one  loud  thanksgiving  for  the  light. 

Beautiful  is  light  to  the  dungeon  prisoner,  wlieu,  < 
after  years  of  darkened  life,  he  stands  beneath  the  } 
sun's  glnd  beams ;  and  beautiful  is  it  to  the  invalid,     \ 


EVENTIDE.                                                   173  ^ 

•\vheii  from  the  couch  of  sickness  he  emerges  into  the  I 

bright  ocean   above   and    around  liim,   and  from  the  > 

depths  of  his   grateful  heart  he  blesses   God  for  the  | 

Ught.  > 

Beautiful  also  is  light  to  the  timid  child,  when,  after  I 

awaking  in  darkness,  his  screams  of  terror  have  brought  i 

some  taper,  and,  as  though  he  knew  that  his  guardian  <. 

angel  had  come  to  watch  his  slumbers,   he  lays  his  I 

cheek  upon  his  little  hand,  even  shuts  his  eye  upon  > 

the   wished-for  object,  and  sweetly  sleeps  —  for  it  is  > 

light.  I 

Beautiful  is  light  when  it  paints  the  tulip  with  gold,  \ 

the  rose  with  crimson,  and  the  grass-grown  earth  with  ' 

living  green.     Yes,  beautiful  is  every  light  of  morn,  of  ', 

eve,   of  midnight,   and  of  noon ;  and  grateful  for  all  [ 

beauty  should  we  be  to  Him  who  is  the  "  Father  of  5 

lights." 

Harriet  Farley. 


EVENTIDE. 


The  golden  gleams 

Of  sunset  beams 
Have  bathed  the  crest  of  the  solemn  mount 
With  floods  of  fire  from  their  heavenly  fount, 


11- 


•---'-'gl 


174 


EVENTIDE. 


And  the  dying  day,  vdth.  its  fading  light, 
Casts  lingering  smiles  on  tlic  i'ace  of  night, 

The  tempest's  spire 

Is  tipt  with  hre 
And  the  lambent  rays,  like  an  angel's  smile. 
Gild  o'er  the  hallowing,  sacred  pile. 
And  fading  away  on  its  arching  dome, 
Dii'ects  above  to  the  spirit's  home. 

The  ocean  light 

Blends  with  the  night. 
As,  mirroring  back  from  the  dceiiening  blue, 
Each  starry  gem  comes  forth  to  view, 
And  a  choral  song  from  the  sounding  deep 
Is  sweetly  murmured  to  the  Maker's  seat. 

The  day  is  gone  — 

Night  trembles  on 
To  where  its  last  fleet  moments  ending, 
In  stilly  darkness  fast  descending  ; 
And  flitting  ghosts  ascend  the  mountain  high, 
To  list  the  music  of  the  stai-ry  sky. 

J.  W.  p.,  (Manchester.) 


.ijr- 


NEW    ENGLAND.  175 


NEW    ENGLAND. 

New  England,  land  of  liberty, 

The  patriot's  pride,  the  freeman's  boast; 

Thy  hills  are  strong,  thy  breezes  free. 

And  heaven  has  blessed  thy  sea- washed  coast. 

Thy  sons  are  greatest  of  the  great. 

Thy  daughters  fairest  of  the  fair  ; 
Thy  name  is  known  in  foreign  state, 

Thy  valor  proved  in  freedom's  war. 

Thy  commerce  whitens  every  sea, 
Thy  flag  waves  proudly  on  the  main  ; 

Earth's  trampled  sons  may  come  to  thee 
In  time  of  need,  nor  come  in  vain. 

Proud,  happy  land,  my  native  place, 

Thy  record  is  a  brilliant  story  ; 
Already  hast  thou  won  the  race 

Of  nations  in  the  stride  for  glory. 

J.  M.  Fletcher. 


f. 

-SI 


IS' 


176 


THE    VALLEY    CEMETERY. 


.1«1 


THE    VALLEY    CEMETERY. 


5 


Ye  soft  sighing  zephyrs  through  foliage  and  vine  ! 
Ye  eeholess  tramps  from  the  footsteps  of  time  ! 
Break  not  o'er  the  silence,  unless  thou  dost  bear 
A  message  from  Heaven  —  "  no  partings  are  there. 

Here  gloom  hath  enchantment  in  beaxity's  array, 
While  whispering  voices  are  calling  away  — 
Their  wooings  are  soft  as  the  vision  more  vain  — 
I  would  live  in  their  empire,  or  die  in  their  chain. 

Here  slecpeth,  'mid  unfading  flowers,  tlie  dead  — 
Flowers  fresh  as  the  pang  in  the  bosom  that  bled  ; 
Yea,  constant  as  love  which  outlivcth  the  grave, 
That  time  cannot  quench  in  oblivion's  wave. 

Mourn  on,  gentle  cypress,  in  evergreen  tears, 
I  love  thy  fidelity,  so  changeless  through  years  ; 
The  heart  hath  a  flower  —  hope's  blossom  above, 
Reared  fail-  in  tlie  realms  of  Goodness  and  Love. 

Ambition,  come  hitlicr  ;  tlicsc  vaults  will  unfold 
The  se(iucl  of  power,  of  glory,  or  gold ; 
Then  rush  into  life,  and  roll  on  with  its  tide, 
And  bustle  and  toil  for  its  ponij)  and  its  pride. 


MYSTERY,    REASON,    FAITH.  177 

The  spirit  wings  flitting  through  the  far  crimson  glow. 
Which  steepeth  the  trees,  -when  the  day-god  is  low  ; 
The  voice  of  the  night-bird  must  here  send  a  tluill 
To  the  heart  of  the  leaves,  when  the  w'inds  are  still. 


J  'Mid  graves  do  I  hear  them  —  they  rise  and  they  swell, 

> 

I  A.J,  call  back  my  spirit  with  seraphs  to  dwell ; 

?  They  come  with  a  breath  from  the  fresh  spring  time, 

<  And  waken  my  youth,  as  in  earliest  prime. 

] 

)  Bright  spirits  departed  !    Ye  echoes  at  dawn  ! 

'  O,  tell  to  which  radiant  now  they  are  gone  ! 

s  And  I'll  gaze  on  its  luminous  track  tLU  I  see 

>  Tioo  loved  ones  in  glory  bright  beaming  o'er  mc. 

\  Mrs.  Mary  M.  Olover. 


MYSTERY,     REASON,     FAITH. 

XiGHT  comes  down  over  a  ship  at  sea,  and  a  passen- 
ger lingers  hour  after  hour  alone  on  the  deck.  The 
waters  plunge  and  welter,  and  glide  away  beneath 
the  keel.  Above,  the  sails  tower  up  in  the  darkness 
almost  to  the  sky,  and  then-  shadow  falls  as  it  were  a 
burden  on  the  deck  below.  In  the  clouded  night  no 
star  is  to  be  seen ;  and  as  the  ship  changes  her  course, 
the  passenger  knows  not  which  way  is  east  or  west,  or 


} 


178  MYSTERY,    KEASON,    FAITH.  I 


north  or  south  —  what  islands,  what  sunken  rocks  may  \ 

be  on  her  course  ;  or  what  that  coiirse  is  or  where  they  \ 

are,  he  knows  not.     All  around,  to  him,  is  Mystery.  \ 

He  bows  do"vv^^  in  the  submission  of  utter  ignorance.  { 

But  men  of  science  have  read  the  laws  of  the  sky.  | 

And  the  next  day  this  passenger  beholds  the  captain  \ 

looking  at  a  clock  and  taking  note  of  the  place  of  the  ' 

sun,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  couple  of  books,  composed  ? 

of  rules  and  mathematical  tables,  making  calculations.  \ 

And  when  he  has  completed  them,  he  is  able  to  point  > 

abnost  within  a  hand's  breadth  to  the  place  at  which,  | 

after  unutimbcrcd  windings,  he  has  arrived  in  the  midst  > 

of  the   seas.      Storms    may   have   beat  and  currents  \ 
drifted,  iDut  he  knows  where  they  arc,  and  the  precise 
point  where,  a  hundred  leagues  over  the  Avaters,  lies 

his  native   shore.      Here  is  Reason,  appreciating  and  ^ 

making  use  of  the  revelations  (if  we  may  so  call  them)  \ 

of  science.  \ 

Night   again  shuts  down  over  the  waste  of  waves,  ) 

and  the  passenger  beholds  a  single  seaman  stand  at  the  \ 

wheel  and  watch,  hour  after  hour,  as  it  vibrates  beneath  > 
a  lamp,  a  Uttlc  needle,  which  points  ever,  as  if  it  were 
a  living  linger,  to  the  steady  pole. 

This  man  knows  nothing  of  the  rules  of  navigation, 

nothing  of  the  courses  of  the   sky.     But  reason  and  { 
experience  have  given  him  Fnitk  in  the  commanding 
ofliccr  of  the  ship  —  fnitli  in  the  laws  that  control  her 
course. —  faith   in   the   unerring   integrity   of  the  little 


in- 


STANZAS.  179      \ 


guide  before  him.  And  so,  without  a  single  doubt,  he 
steers  his  ship  on,  according  to  a  prescribed  direction, 
through  night  and  the  waves.  And  that  faith  is  not 
disajjpointed.  With  the  morning  sun,  he  beholds  far 
away  the  summits  of  the  gray  and  misty  highlands, 
rising  like  a  cloud  on  the  horizon ;  and  as  he  ncars 
them,  the  hills  appear,  and  the  lighthouse  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  harbor,  and  —  sight  of  joy  !  —  tlic  spires  of 
the  churches  and  the  shining  roofs,  among  which  he 
strives  to  detect  his  own. 

Mystery  —  Reason  —  Faith ;  —  mystery  is  the  low- 
est, faith  is  the  highest,  of  the  three.  Reason  has  done 
but  half  its  office  till  it  has  resulted  in  faith.  Reason 
looks  before  and  after.  It  not  only  ponders  the  past, 
but  becomes  prophetic  of  the  future. 

Ephraim  Peabody. 


STANZAS. 

Deep  in  the  caverns  of  the  soul, 

In  solitude  long  hidden. 
Are  thoughts  which  many  weary  years 

The  light  have  been  forbidden. 


( 


180  STANZAS. 

Too  precious  for  the  idle  gaze. 

They  slept  in  quiet  slumbers, 
But  tempests  on  life's  changing  -wave 

Have  waked  the  poet's  numbers. 

Like  beacons  'mid  the  darksome  night 
These  gems  of  mind  are  sliining, 

Still  luring  heavenward  earth-bound  souls, 
A.nd  kindly  hopes  entwining. 

O,  it  is  well,  when  earth  recedes. 

The  spirit-home  seems  nearest. 
And  suffering's  shock  but  wakes  the  strain, 

Of  all  heart-strains  the  dearest. 

The  guardian  angel  oft  may  come 

In  sorrow's  strange  disguise, 
To  waken  dormant  energies. 

And  ripen  for  the  skies. 

Tlicn  bow  we  meekly  to  the  rod,  — 
Not  from  the  dust  it  springcth,  — 

And  holy,  heavenly  is  the  spell 
Wliich  o'or  our  souls  it  flingetli. 

//.  a:  L.,  {CiiiKlin.) 


THE    LOVELY    DEAD. 


181 


THE     LOVELY    DEAD. 

As  vanishes  the  sunset  light, 

As  fade  a-way  the  clouds  of  night, 

So  flees  the  breath, 

When  called  by  death, 
Of  those  too  fail-  to  dwell, 
Whose  praises  strangers  cannot  tell. 

How  can  with  grief  the  bosom  swell, 
HoAV  can  dark  sorrow's  sadd'ning  spell 

Come  o'er  the  heai't. 

When  friends  depart. 
Whose  virtues  shine  with  rainbow  glow,  — 
Whose  proper  sphere  is  not  below  ! 

The  lovely  live,  how  brief  an  horn- ! 

They  leave  to  dwell  with  Sovereign  Power  ! 

They  will  not  here 

Again  appear; 
Yet  earth  retains  a  charm,  a  grace. 
From  their  late  presence,  on  its  face  ! 

With  holier  food  no  soul  is  fed 
Than  mcmorv  of  sainted  dead  ! 


16 


< 


182 


-m 


DREAM    OF  THE    INDIAN    PROPHET. 


A  lofty  tower 

Of  mighty  power, 
The  meni'ry  of  the  dead  doth  rise, 
To  join  the  earth  unto  the  skies ! 

J.  R.  Dodge,  {Jfashua.) 


DREAM  OF  THE  INDIAN  PROPHET. 

"Waiirior,  I  dreamt  a  dream  last  night. 

For  I  slept  by  the  wizard-tree  ; 
And  the  shades  of  the  dead  stood  round  my  licad. 

That  my  spirit  froze  to  sec. 
And  the  sounds  I  heard  from  earth  and  flood, 
Great  Cliief,  would  have  chilled  tliy  hot  war-blood. 

I  saw  tall  barks  on  the  ocean  ride  — 

Heard  tlieir  keels  on  the  billows  roar  ; 

And  their  sails,  spread  liigh  in  the  stormy  sky. 
Looked  down  on  the  red  man's  shore. 

They  thundered  loud  from  their  licry  sides. 

And  their  flakes  sank  dcej)  in  the  Indian  tides. 

Strange  voices  rose  fi"om  tlicir  thronging  decks. 
As  descend  tlieir  glittering  crews  ; 


DREAM    OF   THE    INDIAN    PROPHET.  183 

And  the  -warrior  leaped  from  the  grove  where  he  slept, 

At  the  sound  of  their  dark  canoes. 
He  shook  the  folds  of  his  icy  shi-oud, 
And  shouted  the  war-whoop  long  and  loud  ! 

They  bore  a  banner,  and  said  'twas  God's, 

And  they  bent  to  its  folds  the  knee, 
And  they  sang  a  song,  as  they  planted  it  strong, 

Along  by  the  foaming  sea  ; 
And  bright  in  the  breeze,  as  it  danced  about, 
A  Cross  from  the  midst  of  its  folds  shone  out ! 

They  smote  their  shields  with  theii"  naked  blades, 

And  the  din  rang  far  and  wide  — 
"  Wc  come  -with  the  sword,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 

And  the  Holy  Cross,"  they  cried ; 
And  the  eagle  screamed  from  his  eyry  near. 
As  he  caught  the  flash  of  the  Christian  spear. 

They  swept  o'er  the  land  with  fire  and  steel, 

And  the  forest  they  purged  away, 
And  the  she-wolf  fled,  at  then-  noisy  tread, 

From  the  cave  where  her  young  cubs  lay. 
The  oak  in  its  prime  to  the  earth  was  cast. 
Where  the  feet  of  the  fearless  stranger  passed. 

I  beheld  thy  cliiefs  in  darkness  weep 

O'er  their  doom,  in  that  frightful  dream  ; 

For  their  champions  slain  encumbered  the  plain  — ■ 
Their  blood  empurpled  the  stream  ; 


184  THE    USES   OF   soaRow. 

And  the  jackal  stole  from  his  secret  ceU, 
And  licked  the  grass  where  the  warriors  fell ! 

Then  a  sj^irit  came  on  rushing  ^^■ings, 
And  his  buckler  was  bent  and  red ; 

And  his  wail  arose,  at  the  dim  day's  close, 
And  bemoaned  thy  children  dead. 

But  the  spoiler  sped  like  a  torrent  past, 

And  stood  by  the  uttermost  sea  at  last. 

I  saw  far  into  the  vale  of  years  — 

But  quenched  was  the  bm-ning  brand, 

And  the  last  sad  trace  of  thy  warrior  race 
Had  gone  to  the  foclcss  land ; 

And  the  pennons  of  God  glanced  far  and  free, 

O'er  the  vine-clad  earth  and  the  still,  blue  sea. 

J.  Q..J3.  tVood,  (Orford.) 


THE    USES    OF    SORROW. 

"  Sweet  ail-  llio  uses  of  adversity  ; 
WJiiih,  lilu'  the  toad,  ugly  and  vemmioiis, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  Ills  lioad." 

Tjiehe  is  nothing  without  its  use.    Even  tlic  perplex- 
ities and  trials  of  life  have  their  advantage.     Sorrow 


USES    OF    SORROAV.  18-5 

has  its  use,  in  making  us  know  ourselves.  We 
are  sadly  ignorant  of  ourselves  until  sorrow  comes. 
Our  hearts  are  a  labyrinth ;  there  are  chambers  in 
them  which  have  never  been  explored,  and  winding 
passages  which  have  never  echoed  to  a  footfall.  There 
are  liidden  recesses  which  have  never  been  visited  by 
an  inquiring  thought ;  there  are  depths  which  have 
never  been  sounded,  which  never  can  be  sounded  but 
by  the  line  of  sorrow.  We  think  better  of  ourselves 
than  we  ought ;  but  adversity  brings  us  to  oui-  senses  ; 
it  introduces  us  to  self ;  it  is  oiir  schoolmaster ;  it 
comes  with  a  rod,  compelling  us  to  study  our  own 
lesson,  and  let  our  neighbor's  alone.  The  lesson  it 
indicates,  is  found  on  the  page  of  our  own  life  —  in 
the  book  of  our  own  heart. 

How  many  men  have  never  thought  of  studying 
themselves  until  they  were  tried  !  Confine  a  man 
with  sickness.  Close  the  grave  over  one  he  loves. 
Wring  the  blood  out  of  his  heart  by  the  ingratitude  of 
his  child.  Crucify  him  with  calumny.  Bare  his  head 
to  the  storm,  and  let  Iris  name  be  defenceless  against 
the  barbed  shafts  of  envy  and  slander ;  and  if  his  soiil 
be  left,  he  -N^iU  begin  to  thinlt !  Who  knows  the 
strength  of  his  attachments,  until  the  approach  of 
misfortune  ?  The  love  we  cherish  for  our  friends ; 
who  appreciates  it,  before  it  passes  this  ordeal  ?  Who 
comprehends  his  affections,  while  they  flow  quietly  and 
evenly  out  toward  their  centre  ?     Love  does  not  know 


186  rsES  OF  soRiiow. 


itself,  until  its  form  is  glassed  in  the  -wave  of  sorrow. 
It  must  be  put  upon  the  rack ;  it  must  be  bound  to 
the  burning,  fiery  Avheel  of  anguish,  ere  its  greatness 
and  ardor  are  revealed.  Our  affections,  like  flowers, 
must  be  crushed,  ere  they  will  emit  their  sweetest 
fragrance. 

In  eastern  climes,  where  the  skies  arc  cloudless,  the 
flo^^■ers  are  rich  in  tints  and  gorgeous  dyes,  but  nearly 
colorless.  It  is  only  in  the  clouds  and  mists  of  a 
weeping  atmosphere  like  our  own,  that  they  are  rich 
in  aroma.  So  the  affections  never  yield  their-  choicest 
fragrance  until  the  cloud  comes,  and  they  ai'O  wet  with 
the  rain  of  sorrow.  The  sunshine  may  disclose  their 
beauty,  but  only  the  storm  can  discover  thcii-  strength. 
So,  also,  knowledge  of  ourselves  in  other  respects,  of 
our  virtues  and  Alices,  is  imparted  to  us  through  the 
medium  of  suffering.  It  is  when  the  great  deep  of  the 
soul  is  disturbed  and  broken  up  ;  when  its  waters  oi-e 
tossed  by  the  storm,  that  the  pcail  and  the  weed  are 
alike  thro^vn  to  the  surface,  and  cast  upon  the  shore.         s 

Another  use  of  sorrow  is  that  it  excites  symjiathy  J 
for  others.  Many  a  man  can  trace  the  commencement  \ 
of  the  pity  he  feels  for  the  sad,  to  some  event  trying  to 
himself.  M'hen  my  friend  died,  or  some  other  trial 
blinded  my  eyes  with  tciu's,  I  experienced  a  change  in 
my  feelings  towards  others.  "NVhen  the  billows  of 
grief  swept  over  your  soul,  the  retii-ing  wave  left  upon 
the  shore  this  precious  gem.    Our  sJ^npathY  is  a  Thetis 


USES    OF    SOKROW.  187       \ 

j  bone  of  a  sea.     He,  whose  life   has  been  all  serene,  \ 

I  whose  years  have  passed  like  the  quiet  flow  of  a  bean-  | 

I  tiful  river,  knows  not  the  depth  and  dregs  of  the  cup  \ 

>  sorrow  offers  to  men.     He  does  not   understand  the  j 
<  bitterness  of  the  Asphaltic  draught.     He  cannot  truly  \ 

>  commiserate  others  until  himself  has   suffered.     It  is  { 
I  true,  the  hand  of  adversity  "  is  cold  and  hard,  but  it  is 

I  the  hand  of  a  friend."     Its  voice  is  not  lyrical   and 

i  sweet,  but  it  is  the  voice  of  an  angel.     It  compensates 

J  for  the  pain  it  inflicts  by  the  knowledge  it  imparts. 

i  Its  influence  is  such  as  often  to  make   disaster  better 

^  than  success.  ******* 

^         By  -Rise  improvement  of  them,  then,  let  afilictions 

I  be  converted  into   blessings.      O   mortal !     Study  to 

?  know  their  design!     Let  them  make  thee  wiser  and 

I  better  !     Derive  strength  from  them,  for  they  conflict 

,;  with  evil ! 

" And  thence,  with  constant  prayers, 

Fasten  your  souls  so  high,  that  constantly 
The  smile  of  your  heroic  cheer  may  float 
Above  all  floods  of  earthly  agonies, 
Purification  being  the  joy  of  pain.'' 

Henry  Steele  Clarke,  (Manchister.') 


188  MT  childhood's  home. 


MY    CHILDHOOD'S    HOME. 

My  childhood's  home  !     'Tis  Avhero  mountains  blue 

Are  girding  it  round,  like  they  loved  it  too, 

On  the  shore  of  a  lake,  that  gloriously  lies 

Like  a  jewel  of  God's  just  dropped  from  the  skies. 

For  that  lake-side  fair,  in  youth's  early  hours, 
I've  left  all  I  loved,  my  birds  and  my  flowers, 
And  wandered  alone  by  its  winding  shore, 
Where  I  dreamed  the  dreams  I  can  di'cam  no  more. 

Not  always  alone.     There  were  loved  ones  near-. 
Bright  spirits  of  home,  to  bless  and  to  cheer. 
Bright  idols,  adored  !     (),  how  have  ye  flo^\^l, 
And  darkened  the  light  of  our  eai-ly  home  ! 

On  tlic  western  verge  of  our  ovn\  fair  land 
\         Is  one  from  among  our  household  band, 
]        Who  long  ago  sought,  on  Avild  Oregon's  sliorc, 

A  home  wliere  his  heart  might  be  weary  no  more. 

But  I  turn  my  eyes  to  the  southern  plain. 
And  my  soul  is  athu'st  for  a  flight  again  : 
A  sjnrit  of  home  is  there  lowly  laid, 
'Neath  the  myrtle  and  orange  bloom  shade. 


i 


MY    childhood's    HOME.  189 

The  fire  of  liis  heart  and  light  of  his  eye 
Too  early  were  quenched  —  but  the  beautiful  die  ! 
And  fi-om  the  red  field  of  his  glorious  death, 
A  brave  soul  passed  with  his  parting  breath. 

Tears  for  the  loA^ed  one,  thou  youthful  and  brave  ! 
Tears  for  thy  early,  sad  stranger-made  grave  ! 
^ly  home,  O,  it  cannot  be  near  to  thee  now  — 
Colder  than  mi7ie  is  the  hand  on  thy  brow. 

Shall  I  turn  again  to  the  home  I  left  ? 

'Tis  lonely  there,  for  its  bright  things  are  reft ! 

Yet  sadly  I  go,  my  eyes  full  with  tears. 

And  my  soul  with  the  memories  of  happier  years. 

One  fair  little  girl,  in  the  years  gone  by. 
Faded  from  life,  and  was  laid  down  to  die  ; 
And  another,  all  full  of  youth's  beauty  and  pride. 
With  the  last  falUng  leaves  was  laid  by  her  side. 

'Neath  the  willow-trees,  by  a  gliding  stream. 
Are  resting  the  two  in  their  wakeless  dream  ; 
The  breeze  is  more  soft,  and  the  water's  flow 
Is  more  gentle  there  where  the  loved  lie  low. 

One  fail-  one  is  left  —  O,  she's  very  fair, 
With  deeply  blue  eyes  and  glorious  hair  ; 
With  a  heart  so  warm,  and  a  soul  so  true. 
That  beams  from  the  face  it  glads  one  to  view. 


190 


Tilt     AVHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


The  bloom  on  licr  check  —  'tis  fatally  red, 

And  must  thou,  my  own,  lie  do%\'n  with  the  dead  r 

Last  spLi-it  of  home,  O,  linger  yet  near. 

All  going  —  all  gone  ;  my  home  is  not  here. 

From  all  tliat  I've  loved,  thus  early  passed  by, 
I  turn  mc  away  to  yon  holy  slcy. 
On  the  weary  clouds  that  so  gracefully  curl, 
A  car  shall  be  made  of  their  azure  and  pearl. 

All  slowly  and  soft,  to  a  pale,  pale  star,  \ 

Where  my  o-\\n  in  love  and  the  beautiful  are,  \ 

I'll  go  to  a  home  all  fairer  than  this  —  l 

Bright  star  of  my  dreams,   thou'st  no  waking  from  I 

bUss !  { 

Julia  ^.  ^.  Sargeant.         > 


THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

I  GAZED  upon  llu'  mountain's  top, 

That  pierced  in  twain  the  passing  cloud, 

And  wondered  at  its  giant  form. 
So  dark,  magnificent,  mul  proud. 

Can  this  strong  mountain  from  its  base 

lie  shaken  h\  tlic  tempest's  shock? 


-SI 


I 


MONADNOCK.  191 


Can  all  the  gathered  thunders  stir 
This  everlasting,  solid  rock  ? 

And  scatter  forth  its  dust  like  haU  r 
And  fling  its  fragments  on  the  air  ? 

Can  aught  created  wield  such  strength  ? 
Exists  such  power  ?  —  O,  teU  m'b  where? 

They  may  remove ;  tliese  mountains  may 

Tremble,  and  hence  forever  pass  ; 
These  hills,  that  pillar  up  the  skies, 

Perish,  as  doth  the  new-mown  grass. 

Yea,  saith  the  I^ord,  they  shall  depart, 

The  hills,  and  all  the  solid  land ; 
But  my  sure  word  of  truth  remains, 

My  promise  shall  forever  stand. 

William  B.  Tappan. 


MONADNOCK, 


Upon  the  far-off  mountain's  brow 
The  angry  storm  has  ceased  to  beat, 

And  broken  clouds  are  gathering  now, 
In  lowlv  reverence  roiuid  liis  feet. 


l       192  MONADNOCK, 


i 


I  saw  their  dark  and  crowded  banks 
On  his  firm  head  in  wrath  descending, 

But  there  once  more  redeemed  he  stands, 
And  heaven's  clear  arch  is  o'er  him  bendins. 


I've  seen  him  when  the  rising  sun 

Shone  like  a  watch-fire  on  the  height, 
I've  seen  him  when  the  day  was  done, 

Bathed  in  the  evening's  crimson  light ; 
I've  seen  liim  in  the  midnight  hour, 

AVhen  all  around  were  cabnly  sleeping, 
Like  some  lone  sentry  in  his  tower, 

His  patient  watch  in  silence  keeping. 

And  there,  as  ever,  steep  and  clpar, 

That  pyramid  of  Nature  springs  ! 
He  owns  no  rival  turret  near, 

No  sovereign,  but  the  King  of  kings. 
While  many  a  nation  hath  passed  by. 

And  many  an  age,  unknown  in  story, 
His  walls  and  battlements  on  high 

He  rears,  in  melancholy  glory. 

And  let  a  world  of  human  pride, 
With  all  its  grandeur,  melt  away, 

And  spread  around  his  rocky  side 
The  broken  fragments  of  decay. 

Serene  liis  hoary  liead  will  tower, 

Untroubled  by  one  tliought  of  sorrow ; 


A    BllEAM    OF    AMBITION.  193 

He  numbers  not  the  weary  hour, 
He  -n-elcomes  not  nor  fears  to-morrow. 

Farewell !  I  go  my  distant  way ; 

Perhaps,  not  far  in  future  years, 
The  eyes  that  glow  with  smiles  to-day. 

May  gaze  upon  thee,  dim  with  tears. 
Then  let  me  learn  from  thee  to  rise, 

All  time  and  chance  and  change  defying  ; 
Still  pointing  upward  to  the  skies, 

And  on  the  inward  strength  relying. 

If  life  before  my  weary  eye 

Grows  fearful  as  the  angry  sea. 
Thy  memory  shall  suppress  the  sigh 

For  that  which  never  more  can  be. 
Inspiring  all  ■within  the  heart 

With  firm  resolve  and  strong  endeavor, 
To  act  a  brave  and  faithful  part. 

Till  life's  short  warfare  ends  forever. 

miUam  B.  0.  Peabody. 


A   DREAM    OF    AMBITION. 

Methotjght  I  stood  within  a  quiet  vale,  that 
stretched  in  beauty  far  away  beneath  a  deep  blue  east- 
em    sky,   where  dwelt   a  matron  with  three  lovely 

17 


194  A.    DKEAM    OF    AMBITION. 

daughters.  Till  now  they  had  lived  in  qiiiet  joy,  and 
peace  had  filled  theu-  humble  dwelling.  But  at  length 
the  mother  died ;  and  in  dying,  left  to  her  orphan 
children  the  richest  of  aU  eartlxly  gifts  —  a  mother's 
blessing.  Long  the  maidens  sorrowed,  but  time 
brought  a  solace  to  their  woes,  and  when  the  sjiri^g 
winds  swept  the  valley  green,  each  heart  grew  strong 
and  calm. 

But  the  scene  had  changed.  A  mother's  love  no 
longer  bound  their  spirits'  Aving,  and  now  the  elder  and 
the  younger  rose,  and  left  the  quiet  vale,  to  struggle 
with  the  living  tide.  The  elder,  with  a  gleaming  eye 
and  spirit  wild,  sought  out  the  busy  world  ;  and  in  the 
crowded  city  she  strove  to  win  a  name.  Earnestly  and 
patiently,  step  by  step,  she  rose,  till  at  length,  basking 
in  the  light  of  royalty,  she  sat,  a  "  queen  enthroned  " 
beside  the  proudest  monarch  of  the  earth. 

But  she  stopped  not  here.  The  whisperings  of  Am- 
bition could  not  be  hushed,  and  she  lent  a  willing  car, 
till  maddest  schemes  had  filled  her  heart.  With  steady 
hand  she  povircd  for  her  kin--  tlio  fatal  draught,  and 
when  death  had  stilled  the  "  life-iloik,"  she  turned 
haughtily  away,  for  she  was  then  sole  mistress  of  his 
mighty  realm.  Secure  in  queenly  state,  no  threatening 
arm  coidd  curb  her  fiery  passions,  till  her  once  fair 
hands  were  drenched  in  her  country's  noblest  blood,  — 
till  its  fruitfid  fields  became  a  barren  waste,  and  its 
purest  rills   were    staim-d    with    gore.     But    a    yoxith, 


I 


A    DREAM    OF   AMBITIOX.  195 

•whose  proud  spirit  chafed  like  a  wounded  lion  beneath 
the  yoke,  in  a  maddened  moment  struck  his  dagger  to 
her  heart,  and  freed  his  country  from  oppression. 

My  vision  changed.  Once  more  I  stood  within  the 
bosom  of  that  far,  sweet  vale ;  and  when  I  had  seen 
the  meek  spirit  of  the  mother  bid  farewell  to  earth,  I 
was  doomed  to  gaze  upon  the  dying  struggles  of  her 
second  daughter.  There  had  she  lived  in  the  quiet  of 
her  0A\ni  heart's  home,  and  there  with  a  poet's  art  had 
she  drank  from  its  be-\\ildering  fountains.  There  skil- 
fully had  she  drawn  pictiu-es  of  the  sorrows  of  Ufe,  and 
there  had  she  written  of  the  deep  blue  sky,  the  gliding 
rivers,  and  the  dark,  green  groves  of  her  own  native 
vale.  Ilcr  fame  went  abroad ;  her  praises  dwelt  on 
the  lips  of  kings  and  princes  ;  and  men  loved  her  for 
her  genius.  But  Ambition  was  in  her  heart ;  and  when 
came  the  angel  of  death,  he  found  her  spirit  all  unpre- 
pared for  its  heavenward  flight.  Her  banner,  once 
waving  high,  now  drooped  upon  its  staff,  for  upon  it 
rested  not  the  blessing  of  God, 

Again  my  vision  changed ;  and  I  saw  the  younger 
sister  He  doAvn  among  the  dark  sons  of  Afr-ica,  peace-  > 
ivJly  as  the  tired  dove  would  close  its  wearied  pinions,  | 
Ere  she  left  her  native  vale  she  had  wandered  to  the  \ 
feet  of  Jesus,  and,  kneeling  there,  the  Holy  One  had  i 
laid  his  hands  in  blessing  upon  her  pure,  white  broAV.  \ 
With  this  spirit  went  she  forth  upon  the  sands  of  dis-  { 
tant  climes,  to  win  with  love  the  rude  barbarian  heart.     ! 


196  THE   YOUNG   BRIDE. 

Around  her  gathered  oft  in  prayer  those  dark,  be- 
nighted children,  and,  as  they  lifted  their  dusky  brows, 
their  hiunblcd  mien  and  earnest  eye  besjDoke  the 
awakened  soul  within.  And  when  her  peaceful  spirit 
took  its  flight,  those  savage  men  bowed  low,  and  scald- 
ing tears  fell  from  checks  ne'er  wet  before  but  from  the 
fountain  spray.  She  sought  not  fame  of  earth,  but  her 
story, 

"  Written  in  light  on  Alla's  head. 
By  seraph's  eyes  shall  long  be  read  ;  " 

while  her  silken  banner,  pure  and  stainless  as  the  robe 

of  Jehovah's  self,  floats  ever  in  the  breeze  on  distant 

shore. 

The  vision  passed  from  my  view,  "  but  the  thoughts 

it  awoke  are  too  deeii  to  pass  by,"  and  oft  in  after 

years  did  I  bless  my  God  that  the  Dream  of  Ambition 

had  wrought  good  in  my  heart. 

Kate  Clarence. 


THE    YOUNG    BRIDE. 

She  stood  like  an  nngcl  just  wandered  from  heaven, 
A  pilgrim  benighted  away  from  the  skies, 

And  little  we  deemed  that  to  mortals  were  given 
Such  visions  of  beauty  as  came  from  her  eyes. 


Sh- 


THE    heart's    guests.  19?      '. 


She  looked  up  and  smiled  on  the  many  glad  faces, 
The  friends  of  her  cliildhood,  -who  stood  by  her  side, 

But  she  shone  o'er  them  all,  like  a  queen  of  the  Graces, 
When,  blushing,  she  -whisjoered  the  oath  of  a  bride. 

We  sang  an  old  song,  as  -with  garlands  we  cro-vvned  her, 
And  each  left  a  kiss  on  her  beautiful  brow. 

And  we  prayed  that  a  blessing  might  ever  suiTound  her. 
And  the  future  of  life  be  unclouded  as  now. 

J.  T.  Fields. 


THE     HEART'S     GUESTS. 

When  age  has  cast  its  shadows 

O'er  life's  declining  way. 
When  evening  twilight  gathers 

Round  our  retiring  day,  — 
Then  shall  we  sit  and  ponder 

On  the  dim  and  shado'wy  past, 
In  the  heart's  silent  chamber 

The  guests  will  gather  fast. 

Guests  that  in  youth  we  cherished 
Shall  come  to  us  once  more. 

And  we  shall  hold  communion 
As  in  the  days  of  yore. 


198 


x.'^■->..'s,'^«»J^I 


TUE    UEAUT  S    GUESTS. 


They  may  be  dark  and  sombre, 
They  may  be  bright  and  fair, 

But  the  heart  will  have  its  chamber, 
The  guests  Avill  gather  there. 

How  shall  it  be,  my  sisters  ? 

Who  shall  be  our  hearts'  guests  ? 
How  shall  it  be,  my  brothers, 

"When  life's  shadow  on  us  rests  ? 
Shall  we  not  'mid  the  silence 

Hear  voices  sweet  and  low, 
Speak  the  old  familiar  language. 

The  words  of  long  ago  r 


Shall  we  not  see  dear  faces 

Sweet  smiling,  as  of  old. 
Till  the  mists  of  that  lone  chamber 

Arc  sunset  clouds  of  gold, 
When  age  has  cast  its  shadows 

O'er  life's  declining  way, 
And  evening  twilight  gathers 

Round  our  retiring  day  ? 


Mii.  Onte. 


MUSINGS.  199 


MUSINGS. 

How  beautiful  to  stand  by  the  ocean's  side,  to  look 
upon  its  calm  blue  surface,  as  -wave  after  wave  leaves 
tbc  sandy  shore,  and  recedes  back  upon  its  orbed  bo- 
som. But  more  glorious  it  is  to  gaze  into  its  clear 
depths,  and,  tracing  the  mirrored  beauty  of  the  heav- 
ens, look  back  upon  the  ages  of  the  past,  which  have 
rolled  away  since  the  morning  stars  first  sang  together, 

"  Wlien  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke. 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke." 

What  mighty  reflections  crowd  in  upon  the  mind  ! 
;  What  hidden  meanings,  what  awful  teachings,  those 
I  flitting  clouds  and  transplendent  arch  disclose  !  Myri- 
<  ads  and  mvriads  of  life  have  entered  the  sphere  of  ac- 
tion,  have  winged  their  rapid  flight,  and  passed  to 
silence  and  to  nothingness.  Thrones  and  principali- 
ties, founded  upon  the  accumulated  wrongs  of  ages, 
have  tottered  and  fallen  'mid  the  shouts  of  their  o^ra 
destroyers.  Crowned  heads  have  bowed  low.  Heroic 
I  legions  have  perished  upon  the  battle-field,  while 
usurping  tjTants  have  stripped  the  laurel  from  their 
f  brow  and  striven  onward  in  the  tide  of  power.  "  I*Iar- 
ble  domes  and  gilded  spires  "  have  crvimbled  in  the 


200 


MUSINGS. 


dust.  Proud  cities  lie  buried  in  the  lava's  flood. 
Fleets  and  armaments  are  rotting  in  the  sounding  deeps. 
But  thou,  old  ocean,  'mid  the  -wrecks  of  ages,  in  rest- 
less motion  keepest,  and  murmurest  forth  thy  solemn 
wails  on  distant  shores. 

"  Time  writes  no  wrinkles  on  thy  azure  brow  ; 

Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollcst  now." 

In  sunshine  or  in  storm,  in  tumult  or  in  calm,  still 
thou  art  the  same  —  terrible  in  thy  beauty  —  ineffably 
grand  and  sublime.     Ever  and  anon  the  winds  sweep 
o'er  thy  surface,  and  raise  thy  crystal  billows  high,  vet 
again  the  air  is  calm,  and  sweet  peace  rests  upon  thy 
tranquil  waters.      *****      j^  sacred  record, 
the  mind  recurs  to  such  a  scene  as  this.     'Twas  when 
the  SaAdor  and  his  little  band  of  followers  sailed  forth 
upon  the  deep.     Night  had  closed  around  them,  and 
Nature  had  }-ielded  to  the  potent  charm  of  rest.    And, 
as  they  glided  on,  a  holy  stdlncss  pervaded  the  tran- 
>     quil  sea,  and  angel  watchers  seemed  hovering  o'er  the 
I     peaceful  sleepers.     But  suddenly  sounds  fall  upon  the 
)     ear.     Deep  thunders  peal  along  the  sky.     Lightning, 
/    flash  upon  flash,  darts  through  the  heavens.     The  sea, 
I     before  so  calm,  now  rocks  in  tumultuous  commotion. 
i     The  surges  pile  mountain  liigh,  and  threaten  each  mo- 
■^    ment  to  ingulf  the  sinking  ship  nnd  the  devoted  band 
}     together.     From  dreams  terrific  they  wnke  to  the  terri- 
I     ble  realities  around.     Wild  and  despairing,  tliey  gather 


THE    bachelor's  SONG.  201 

round  their  much -loved  Master.  Composed,  he  marks 
their  trembling  forms  and  visages  blanched  with  ter- 
ror, and  hears  the  fearfid  cry,  '<  0,  save  us  ere  we  per- 
ish I  "  calmly.  He  seeks  the  spray- washed  deck,  and 
surveys  the  tempestuoiis  sea  and  the  warring  elements 
above.  What  a  scene  —  what  a  moment  was  that ! 
Archangels  now  might  drop  theu-  lyres  and  list  the 
tempest's  revch-y.  He  speaks  —  listen  :  "Peace,  be 
still,"  is  wafted  to  the  storm-god's  farthest  habitation. 
He  hears  it,  and  obeys.  Instantly  the  ocean  is  at  rest. 
The  clouds  draw  off  from  the  brightening  heavens,  the 
pale  moon  peeps  from  her  silvery  curtains,  and  sheds 
her  gentle  rays  o'er  a  scene  of  tranquil  beauty. 

A.  M.  H.,   {Manchester.) 


THE    BACHELOR'S    SONG. 

A  SINGLE  life's  the  life  for  me, 

Bright,  sunny  isles  are  there  ; 
I'U  dash  wide  o'er  its  bounding  sea, 

Nor  love  nor  hate  the  fair. 
With  fearless  heart  and  manly  pride. 

Against  the  surging  strife. 
My  peaceful  bark  wiU  gallant  ride. 

Untroubled  with  a  -wife. 


202  THE  bacuelor's  song.  { 


Who  tamely  lets  a  woman's  art 

His  foolish  heart  intlirall, 
Will  surely  learn,  too  late,  alas, 

That  love's  a  humbug  all ! 
'Tis  all  a  cheat,  a  lie,  a  show, 

To  trap  poor  silly  men  — 
Old  maids  to  Bedlam  all  may  go, 

And  ne'er  come  back  again  ! 

In  manhood's  prime,  'tis  do^niright  sin 

To  run  such  odds  for  life, 
'Mid  countless  blanks,  to  only  win 

A  useless,  worthless  wife  ; 
And  when,  by  fate  or  fortune  blest, 

Which  would  indeed  be  worse, 
The  painted,  bauble  prize,  at  best, 

May  prove  a  splendid  curse. 

A  wife's  a  pearl  of  tempting  hue, 

But  stormy  waves  arc  round  it. 
And  dearly  will  a  mortid  rue 

The  day  when  first  he  found  it. 
If  all  hor  locks  wcro  gloaming  gold, 

Where  gems  like  dew. drops  fall, 
One  passing  hour  of  life,  frce-soul'd, 

Were  sweetly  worth  them  all. 

The  bird  tliut  wings  the  sunny  sky, 
To  greet  tlic  rosy  nioru,  — . 


ON  A  lady's  poutrait.  203 

The  stag  that  scales  the  mountain  high, 

When  rings  the  hunter's  horn  — 
When  he  shall  seek  the  crowded  jDlains, 

Or  birds  their  prison-cage, 
Then  I'll  be  bound  in  Hymen's  chain, 

To  bless  a  future  age. 

A  single  life's  the  life  for  me, 

Bright,  sunny  isles  are  there  ; 
I'll  dash  wide  o'er  its  foaming  sea. 

Nor  love  nor  hate  the  fair. 
With  fearless  heart  and  manly  pride. 

Against  the  surging  strife, 
My  gallant  bark  will  peaceful  ride, 

Untroubled  with  a  wife. 

F.  Ji.  A.,  {Manchester.) 


ON    A    LADY'S    PORTRAIT. 

The  blissful  June  of  life  !     I  love  to  gaze 
On  its  sweet  wealth  of  ripening  loveliness, 

And  lose  the  thought  that  o'er  my  saddening  daj-s 
Grim  care  has  woven  clouds  which  will  depress. 


In  spite  of  stoic  pride  and  stern  resolve, 

Beauty  like  this  the  waste  of  life  redeems  ; 
Round  it  —  their  sun  —  the  coldest  hearts  revolve, 

"Warmed  back  to  youth,  and  gladdened  by  its  beams. 
But,  lady  !  in  that  mild,  soul -speaking  glance, 

Those  lustrous  orbs,  returning  heaven  its  hue, 
I  greet  an  earlier  friend  —  forgive  the  trance  ! 

'Tis  Nature  only  imaged  here  so  true 

That,  briefly,  I  forgot  the  Painter's  art. 

And  hailed  the  presence  of  a  queenly  heart. 

H.  OrccUy. 


LADIES'    DRESSES. 

How  many  dresses  ladies  wear  — 
In  all  of  whicli  jjride  has  a  share ! 
The  morning  dishabille  appears, 
And  answers  well  for  household  cares , 
But  more  complete  and  full  attire 
Their  walks  and  afternoons  require  ; 
To  worship  the  great  God  of  heaven, 
More  rich  they  dress  one  day  in  seven. 
But  when  in  parties  thoy  appear, 
And  finer  dress  they  dioose  to  wear. 
And  when  to  ball-rooms  they  advance, 


NOVEL-READING.  205 

And  join  the  lively,  giddy  dance, 
More  gaudy  dress  becomes  the  scene. 
Where  sashes  Avavc  and  spangles  gleam. 
But  soon  the  sprightly  hours  are  past, 
For  pleasures  cannot  always  last ; 
A  cold  ensues,  and  sickness  comes, 
Disorder  seats  upon  the  lungs ; 
A  chamber  dress  is  now  put  on, 
Nor  changed  at  mom  or  evening  sun  ; 
But  mortal  sickness  soon  is  o'er  — 
The  lady  needs  but  one  dress  more  ! 

Hosea  Ballon. 


NOVEL-READING. 

Much  novel-reading  is  bad  ;    bad  both  in  tendency 
and  result ;  positively  and  conclusively  bad,  inasmuch 

\     as  it  sets  forth  life  and  character  in  a  false  and  delusive  <. 

/    light,  and  unfits  the  mind  for  sohd  study.     But  novels,  '/ 

\    it  is  said,  are  the  works  of  genius  and  art,  and  spring  \ 

\     from  a  refined  and  cultivated  taste.     Be  it  so  ;  —  yet  i^ 

>     is  poison  less  deadly  because  administered  by  skilful  I 

]     hands,  and  perhaps,  too,  mingled  with  safe  and  whole-  \ 

\     some  ingredients  ?     'Tis  said,  too,  they  abound  in  gen-  \ 


206  NOVEL-KEADINO. 

erous  and  beautiful  sentiments  —  that  their  style  is  fas- 
cinating, and  that  many  truths  are  inculcated  —  that 
lovely  and  imitable  characters  are  often  set  forth  —  that 
virtue  is  robed   in  transcendent  purity,  and  vice  in  re- 
voltinj^  blackness  —  that  the  one  is  consigned  to  infamy, 
and  the  other  to  a  glorious  renown.     "SVould  it  were  so, 
indeed.     Yet  the  reverse  is  too  often  true,  where   a 
vicious  heroism  is  exalted,  and  the  sublimest  virtues 
are  debased ;  where   character  is  set  forth,  which,  to 
the  young  and  inexperienced,  seems  stamped  with  the 
i     impress  of  heaven,  yet,  when  once  stripped  of  its  col- 
I     oring,  stands  revealed  in  its  naked  ghastliness. 
I         Yet,  if  exclusive  novel-reading  is  bad,  may  it  not 
J     sometimes  aftbrd  relief  to  the  mind  and  relax  the  in- 
,     tellectual  system  ?   True,  the  overburdened  mind  needs 
;     rest ;  but,  from  the  multiplicity  of  books  Anth  which  our 
I     age  abounds,  cannot  enough  be  found  ^Wthout  rcsort- 
I     ing  to  those  of  doubtful  tendency  ■     AVliat  though  the 
5     style  be  charming,  and  its  channel   inlaid  \\ith  glitter- 
5     ing  pearls  ?     In  this  short  life,  were  not  time  unprofit- 
ably  spent,  nay,  worse  than  wasted,  in  dwelling  upon 
the    diseased    imaginings    of    idle    or   vicious    minils  r 
Were  it  not  a  crime,  thus  to  stpiander  the  richest  m- 
lieritance  of  earth,  to  feed  the  weakest  passion  of  our 
natures?  — thus  to  revel  in  the  idlest  dissipations  of 
the  brain,  when  all  tlie  briglit,  tlic  true,  the  beautiful, 
tlie  real  ui  life  arc  before  us  ■ 

And  herein  lies  the  danger  :  that  sin,  clothed  in  tlic 


NOVEL-EEADING.  207       I 


sliining  di-apery  of  thought,  may,  to  the  eager  and  vm-  t 
suspecting,  exhibit  the  form  and  com.cliness  of  purity ;  > 
and  which,  if  but  exhibited  as  in  nature,  its  hideous-  j 
ness  -would  be  so  revolting,  that  purity  and  mnocence  s 
would  recoil  fi'om  its  sight. 

But  especially  does  novel-reading  disqualify  the 
mind  for  the  more  arduous  attainments  of  study,  and 
even  create  a  distaste  for  the  sober  reahties  of  life  ;  for 
the  mind,  accustomed  to  soar  in  the  cloud-land  of 
fancy,  is  soon  filled  with  phantoms,  which  it  vaiidy  ^ 
hopes  good  fortune  will  make  real.     Behold  that  pale     i 


girl,  weeping  by  turns  o'er  a  tale  of  fiction.  There,  in 
her  stUl  chamber,  by  her  midnight  lamp,  with  a  swim- 
ming swollenness  of  soul,  has  she  pored  over  the  pre- 
cious volume,  till  at  length, 

"  The  bad  all  killed,  and  the  good  all  pleased, 
Her  thirsty  curiosity  appeased, 
She  shuts  the  dear,  good  book,  that  made  her  weep, 
Puts  out  the  light,  and  turns  away  to  sleep." 

But  ere  the   "balmy  messenger"  has  come  to  her  pil-  ^ 

low,   imagination   again   wanders   over  the   scenes  so  < 

lately  presented,   the   varied   actors   start    from  their  \ 

hidings  anew,  while  her  ideal  heroine  becomes  identi-  < 

fied  with  herself,   and  bewilders  her  fancy  with  more  I 

extravagant  mockeries  than  before.     ^lorning  comes,  i 

and  brings  no  realization  of  her  di'cams.     But  common  ^ 

life  surrounds  her,  and  can  she  be  satisfied :     Can  she  I 


208 


REMINISCENCES   OP   CHILDHOOD. 


engage  in  the  common  duties  of  life  ?  Her  heroine 
consented  to  be  engaged  in  no  useful  employment,  nor 
does  it  suit  her  lofty  ideas ;  and  although  she  may  not 
be  able  to  convert  her  father  to  a  king,  nor  her  mother 
to  a  duchess,  yet  she  can  imagine  herself  destined  to 
shine  in  palace  halls,  and  move  amid  the  circles  of 
wealth  and  fashion.  She  is  discontented  and  unhap- 
py —  dis(j^ualidcd  for  the  enjoyments  of  domestic  life, 
useless  to  others,  and  a  burden  to  herself.  Thus  drags 
the  current  of  her  life,  till,  by  chance,  an  admirer  and 
lover  turns  up,  %\hom  her  enraptured  spirit  instantly 
converts  to  an  angel  of  light.  With  this  romantic  and 
sentimental  paragon,  she  consents  to  pass  her  future 
days  ;  but  alas  !  just  as  her  happiness  seems  well  nigh 
completed,  she  finds  her  palace  a  hovel,  her  admiier  a 
deceiver,  and  herself  forsaken  by  all  the  viituous  and 

the  good. 

Elizabeth,  (Manchester.) 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


New  IlAMi'suinE,  I  love  thee —  thy  rough  granite  liills, 
Thy  forests  and  rivers,  thy  mountains  and  rills ; 
Thy  snow-blasts  of  winter,  thy  zephyrs  of  spring  ; 
Thy  rose-scented  summer,  all  platted  with  green. 


.-S.   V-^-V^^S-s. 


--M 


REMINISCEXCES     OF    CHILDHOOD.  209 

I  love,  too,  thy  school-house,  moss-covered  bj'  time, 

Where  aping  my  ciders  I  first  learned  to  rhyme, 

As,  weary  with  playing  and  scanning  the  lasses, 

I  sighed  like  a  toper  who  thinks  of  his  glasses ; 

Till  in  process  of  time  my  love  took  a  turn, 

^ly  heart  fluttered  softly,  new  passion  did  burn ; 

The  rosy- cheeked  maiden,  the  boy-girl  at  play. 

The  child  of  yesterday  was  sweetheart  to-day. 

This  passion  inspu'ed  me  with  poetic  lore. 

Till  'bove  Don  Juan  my  fancies  did  soar ; 

Still  brighter  and  brighter  the  flame  grew  apace, 

Like  the  sun  in  the  morn  of  its  diurnal  race. 

Till  nothing  on  earth,  in  the  sea,  or  the  air, 

So  gloriously  bright,  so  enchantingly  fair. 

Yet  soon  it  was  clouded  —  in  coldness  did  set, 

Forsooth  my  beloved  was  catight  in  a  fret. 

She  boldly  asserted  I  had  grown  too  free 

"With  Susan,  or  Sarah,  or  Jane,  or  Hitte. 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  I,  "  lady,  do  plainly  tell  us 

How  many  more  are  there  of  whom  you  are  jealous  ?  " 

Quite  oft  we  would  have  it,  day  in  and  day  out ; 

Sometimes  in  a  passion,  sometimes  in  a  pout. 

At  last  she  grew  mild,  and  proniised  her  favor. 

If  from  suspicion  m  future  I'd  save  her. 

Yes,  thus  it  was  with  us  —  both  pettish  at  first, 

At  last  we  resolved  each  other  to  trust ; 

And  now,  whilst  I'm  writing,  a  laughing  blue  eye 
I. 
<     Is  turned  from  its  labors  and  watches  near  by. 

18 


210 


BRIGHTER    MOMENTS. 


For  tliis,  too,  I  love  thee,  my  own  native  state  ; 
A  flower  from  thy  fields  I've  plucked  for  my  mate, 
Whose  fi-agranee,  still  fresh  as  the  iiew-gathcrcd  rose, 
Gives  sweet  incense  to  joy  and  softens  my  woes. 

Lcighton,  (Manchester.) 


BRIGHTER    MOMENTS. 


There  are  moments  bright  with  svmshine, 

In  the  checkered  scenes  of  life, 
"When  the  soul  has  ceased  its  warrings, 

When  'tis  free  from  inward  strife  ; 
When  the  gushing  fount  of  fceUng 

Pours  her  silver- tinted  stream, 
When  the  smile  of  love  is  stealing 

O'er  the  spirit  like  a  dream. 

There  aic  gems  of  sparkling  beauty 

In  the  Avorld  around  us  here, 
In  the  joyous  path  of  duty, 

In  aflection's  silent  tear  ; 
In  the  twiliglit  shades  of  evening, 

When  the  suiibenms  quit  the  vale, 
In  the  speaking  eye  of  lovers, 

When  they  brentlic  the  tender  talc. 


THE    NOVICE.  211 

Yet  there  are  brighter  moments, 

There  are  gems  of  purer  ray, 
When  we  turn  our  thoughts  within  us. 

Than  the  light  of  fading  day,  — 
Than  the  tale  of  youth  or  maiden, 

Breathed  in  passion's  thrilling  tone  ; 

O,  'tis  when  we  hold  communion 

With  our  spirits  —  still  —  alone. 

fV.,  {Jilanchc.^tar  ) 


THE    NOVICE, 


Look  !  what  a  seraph-glance  is  hers, 

Whose  full  blue  eyes  thrown  up  to  heaven  ! 

That  breast  no  low-born  passion  stirs, 
Afar  each  thought  of  earth  is  driven  ; 
I  Maid  of  the  bright,  the  angel  brow. 

Where  is  thy  fancy  roving  now  ?  — 


Among  those  peaks  of  softest  hue. 

Where  twilight's  pur]^)le  feet  have  strayed ; 

O'er  yonder  sea  of  starless  blue. 

Where  all  day  long  the  clouds  have  played  ; 

Turning  to  earth  a  transient  gaze. 

As  on  a  thing  of  by-gone  days  ? 


\       212  THE    NttVICE. 

Or,  from  their  moonbeam  revels  led, 
Charmed  by  that  gentle  face  of  thine, 

Perchance  fair  spirits  round  thy  head 

With  plumes  of  dazzling  whiteness  shine, 

And  linger  there,  to  smUe  and  bless, 

Lost  in  a  dream  of  loveliness  ! 

On  yonder  summits,  gathering  fast, 
Hope  may  unfold  her  laughing  band ; 

Or  Bome  glad  image  of  the  past 

Wave  from  the  cloud  a  sliadowy  hand, 

And  bid  thee  twine  again  the  bowers 

Affection  wove  in  earlier  hours. 

She  heeds  thee  not !     The  choral  song. 
That  dies  unnoticed  on  thine  cars. 

The  voices  of  the  sainted  tlirong, 

Who  chant  the  hymns  of  other  spheres. 

Have  lured  her  raptured  soul  on  high. 

Amid  that  bright-eyed  company. 

Tread  softly  on,  and  dare  not  break 
The  holy  spell  which  binds  her  there  ; 

For  who,  sweet  maiden,  wlio  could  woko 
Thy  spirit  from  its  trance  of  prayer, 

Or  bid  thy  soul  from  realms  of  liglit 

To  these  daik  scenes  wing  back  its  flight  ? 

Samuel  T.  IlilJri(Ji. 


ia^ 


I    AM    DREAMING. 


213    I 


I    AM    DREAMING. 


I  AM  di'eaming,  I  am  dreaming, 
I've  been  dreaming  all  the  day  — 

Weeks  they  seem  one  lengthened  dream 
I  am  dreaming  life  away. 

I  am  dreaming,  I  am  dreaming, 
My  dreams  are  —  O,  so  sweet !  — 

Such  be-nitching  converse  that  I  hold, 
Such  spirits  that  I  greet. 

I  am  dreaming,  I  am  dreaming, 

My  thoughts  I  can't  define. 
So  mystic  is  the  changeful  hue 

That  floats  my  spirits'  shrine. 

I  am  di-eaming,  I  am  dreaming, 

Upward,  up  away ; 
I  catch  a  \T.sion  of  the  soul  — 

O,  such  a  brilliant  ray, 

That,  could  I  bring  it  back  to  thee, 
'Twould  fire  thy  soul  -with  light,  — 

Would  set  thy  heart-locked  music  free,  - 
Unchain  liis  spirit's  flight. 


^w-^.rs..^■r^.»m| 


m- 


214  THE    GKEEX    MOUNTAIN'    MAID. 

Yes,  I  am  dreaming  —  none  may  know 
The  hidden  beauty  bound 

Within  my  vision's  spirit's  sphere, 
The  home  my  soxil  has  fomid. 


M.  H.  Jl. 


THE     GREEN    MOUNTAIN    MAID. 

'TwAS  a  beautiful  spot  where  the  vine-covered  cot 
of  the  mountaineer  stood  in  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

X     There  the  forest  bird's  song  echoed  all  the  day  long,  "  > 

/     and  the  mountain  stream  played  in  the  depths  of  the  ! 

\     shade ;    while  the  graceful  young  fawn  cropped  the  > 

\  f 

J     herbage  at  dawn  from  tlie  wide-spreatling  laA\-n.  'Twas  • 

a  beautiful  spot  —  'twas  a  beautiful  cot  —  and  surely  i 

there  ne'er  was  a  maiden  more  fair,  nor  a  maid  more  i 

rare,  than  tlic  maid  that  dwelt  tlicrc.     Sliidl  I  picture  } 

this  niaid  of  the  greenwood  and  glade,  as  she  was  in  > 

the  day  when  old  ••  Allen  "  held  sway,  while  his  iron-  ( 

nerved  men  wore  the   jiridc  of  the   glen  ?     She   was  ! 

neither  too  tall,  too  sliort,  i\or  too  small,  nor  so  light  i 

nor  so  airy  us  the  form  of  a  fairy.  > 

But  the  pride  of  the  glade  was  the  rosj -cheeked 
maid,  witli  eyes  quite  as  blue  as  tlic  summer  nky's  hue, 

and  tlie  tresses  of  brown,  lloating  gracefully  down,  and  | 


}  THE    GREEN    MOUNTAIN    MAID.  215 


nestling  below  on  a  bosom  of  snoAV.  She  could  warble 
and  sing  like  a  songstress  of  spring ;  she  could  spin 
and  could  sweep,  and  could  mow  and  could  reap  — 
could  ride  the  gray  steed  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  and 
J  had  sported  a  trifle  with  her  father's  old  rifle.  And 
I  this  bouncing  young  maid  of  the  evergreen  shade  was 
/  chaste  and  refined,  and  had  such  a  mind  as  you  seldom 
^  ■will  find  among  the  gay  maids  of  haughtier  grades. 
J  A  lover  she  had,  who  would  have  been  glad  to  cap- 
'  ture  her  heart  by  his  scheming  and  art.  O'Handy  his 
>  name,  and  a  dandy  by  fame,  who,  though  wrinkled  and 
parched,  was  whiskered  and  starched,  and  displayed 
quite  a  rare  and  ciiified  air.  Well,  he  knelt  at  her  feet 
and  began  to  entreat,  while  his  great  bosom  beat  with 
unmerciful  heat ;  and  he  told  such  a  tale  as  he  deemed 
would  not  fail  to  make  her  beheve  that  he  could  not 
deceive. 

"While  thus  he  knelt  pleading,  while  thus  interceding, 
he  thought  by  her  smiling  that  his  words  were  be- 
guiling. But  he  found  the  conclusion  a  hopeless  de- 
lusion ;  for  that  maid  was  unlinking  his  scheming  — 
was  thinking ;  and  she  thought  in  a  twinkling  she'd 
give  him  a  sprinkling  of  the  well-pei)pered  ointment 
of  black  disappointment.  Ere  he  drew  to  a  close  she 
turned  up  her  nose,  as  you  may  suppose,  just  as  high 
as  she  chose ;  and,  scorning  his  prose,  through  his 
pleadings  she  broke,  and  thus  'twas  she  spoke  :  — 
"  O,  great  is  youj  fame ;  O'Handy  by  name  ;  from 


i       216  THE    GREEN    MOVNTAIX     MAID. 

I  the  city  you  came  with  your  heart  all  a-flamc  ;  and  you  < 
<  thought,  in  the  shade  of  mountain  or  glade,  to  capture  5 
i  a  maid  uy  pomp  or  parade.  O,  save  all  your  tears, 
?  your  hopes  and  yoiur  fears,  yo\ir  '  ducks '  and  your 
<  dears,'  for  some  other  ears.  All  men  are  agreed  you're 
a  nice  man  indeed;  but  your  figure's  too  lean,  you're 
too  gaunt  and  too  green ;  and  that  is  not  all,  you're 
extensively  tall ;  your  nose  is  too  big,  you've  a  voice 
like  a  pig,  and  you  wear  a  huge  wig,  while  your  upper 
lip  seems  just  the  shade  of  your  dreams.  Now  my 
answer  you  know,  there's  the  door  —  you  may  go  !  " 

Still  he  lingered  to  i)lead  in  his  love  and  his  need,  ( 
and  he  boasted  or  told  of  liis  tiller  and  gold  —  of  her  > 
station  in  lil'c  wlioni  he  chose  for  a  A\ife.  But  he  | 
found  'twas  no  part  of  a  mountain  maid's  heai-t  to  bear  j 
insiilt  and  wrong  from  an  eye  or  a  tongue.  That  maid  | 
could  not  brook  such  word  and  such  look,  and  she  \ 
caught  do\\Ti  a  broom  that  hung  in  the  room,  and  hit  | 
him  a  blow  that  made  the  blood  flow  not  gracefully 
slow.  lie  lit  on  nil  four,  just  out  of  the  door,  all  cov- 
ered with  gore.  Then  he  sprung  to  his  feet,  and,  ex- 
ceedingly meet,  he  beat  a  retreat  to  cover  his  defeat ;  — 
disappeared  o'er  the  green,  and  was  never  more  seen  —  5 
and  ever  since  then,  city- dandified  men  have  learned    l 

to  beware  of  the  Green  Mountain  Fair.  j 

J«.-fjih  C  J^'eal.  ] 


< 


TO    AN    IRISH    BOY.  217 


■m 


i 


TO    AN    IRISH    BOY. 

[Walking  one  afternoon  with  a  friend  on  Washington  Street, 
we  stopped  a  moment  at  a  window,  to  examine  several  pictures,  ^ 
among  which  was  a  representation  of  a  beautiful  landscape.  I 
Standing  before  us  were  two  little  Irish  boys,  whose  tattered  gar-  ', 
ments  bespoke  their  familiarity  with  scenes  of  poverty  and  woe.  < 
After  gazing  silently  at  the  picture,  the  younger  exclaimed,  in  the  < 
native  poetry  of  the  Irish  brogue,  "  Ah,  and  look  ye  away  there, 
and  see  the  beautiful  water,  and  the  green  trees,  and  the  birds 
a-flying  over  them."] 

Ay,  gaze  and  worship  at  the  shrine 

Of  Nature  and  of  Art ; 
The  poetry  of  licaven  is  thine, 

Its  sunlight  in  thy  heart. 

Thou'rt  standing  in  the  crowded  mart 

Of  fasliion  and  of  strife. 
Yet  in  its  cares  thou  tak'st  no  part, 

In  pleasures  or  in  strife. 

The  jewelled  casements  gleam  around. 

Yet  from  that  painted  scroll 
A  holier  light  is  beaming  on 

The  mirror  of  thy  soul. 


19 


218  TO    AX    IHISII    BOY. 

Perhaps  thou'rt  living  o'er  in  dreams, 

As  memory  leads  tliee  back, 
The  happiness  of  childhood's  scenes 

Across  the  ocean's  track. 

Or  art  thou  wishing  that  some  sprite 

Of  fau-y-hauntcd  glen 
Would  come  and  kindly  bear  thee  back 

To  Erin's  isle  again  ? 

Ah,  no  !    They  arc  not  thoughts  like  these 
That  s-well  thy  tlorobbing  breast, 

But  whispered  strains  of  harmonies 
By  angel  accents  blest. 

Then  gaze  thou  on,  poor  little  boy. 

And  drink  thy  sjurit's  fill 
From  that  pure  scene  of  summer  sky. 

Of  rivers,  vale,  and  hill. 

For  tliough  'luitl  gloom  tliy  lot  is  cost, 

God  hath  in  kindness  given 
The  love  of  all  things  beautiful. 

To  light  thy  path  to  heaven. 


A.  A.  J. 


\ 


THE    SUNBEAM.  219 


THE    SUNBEAM. 

A  SUNBEAM  stole  to  the  dreai-y  earth. 

With  light  on  its  airy  ■wing, 
And  it  kissed  the  flowers  in  gleesome  mirth, 

With  the  breath  of  early  spring. 

And  on  it  passed,  through  the  meadows  green, 

Where  the  tiny  grass-blade  sprang 
From  the  dark  brown  bosom  of  mother  earth, 

And  a  song  of  spring  it  sang. 

It  crept  to  the  heart  of  the  early  flower, 

In  whose  eye  a  tear-drop  lay, 
Where  it  whispered  words  of  magic  power, 

And  it  wept  no  more  that  day. 

On,  on,  o'er  the  hills,  to  the  rivulet  wild. 

That  laughingly  flung  its  spray. 
The  sunbeam  flew  ;  and  it  gently  smiled 

As  it  passed  on  its  gladsome  way. 

And  the  foam-beads  looked,  'neath  that  sumiy  gaze, 
Like  the  gems  of  the  mountain  mine  ; 

But  the  ray  had  sped  on  its  lightsome  wing 
To  the  forest  of  waving  pine. 


220  CHARACTER. 

And  a  dirge-like  song  from  the  forest  came, 

Of  voices  \vild  and  fi-ee, 
And  the  song  they  sung  was  ever  the  same, 

Of  strange,  deep  melody. 

And  the  sunbeam  kissed,  in  childlike  play, 

The  crest  of  the  lordly  pine, 
And  the  castled  rock,  so  hoar  and  gray, 

That  had  seen  the  march  of  time. 

But  a  storm-cloud  came  athwart  the  sky. 
And  the  sunbeam  was  withdrawn. 

Yet  it  perished  not  —  for  the  good  ne'er  die, 
But  they  wait  for  a  brighter  dawn. 

Lucy,  (JUanclifiiUr.) 


CHARACTER. 

The  greatest  of  all  mistakes,  at  the  outset  of  life,  is 
the  mistake  of  presuming  on  the  favor  of  mankind 
without  earning  it.     To  youth  the  world  will  jiardon 
much.     Its  indiscretions  and  obliiiuitios  are  overlooked 
'e     with  siuprising  charity.     But  youth  soon  passes  away  ; 


CHAKACTER.  221 

and  Avith  it  passes  away  also  the  lenity  of  judgment, 
the  kind  alloAvance,  -with  which  its  follies  and  errors 
are  regarded.  The  man  is  measured  by  a  severer 
standard,  and  awards  are  meted  out  to  him  on  sterner 
principles.  The  high  posts,  the  permanent  distinctions 
of  life,  its  great  prizes,  are  all  purchased  by  weary 
years  of  toil.  It  is  true,  in  a  country  like  ours,  the 
patient  cultivator  of  himself  the  diligent  student  of 
the  abstruser  and  less  inviting  principles  of  things,  may 
be  sometimes  outrun  and  distanced  by  nimbler,  more 
bustling,  and  less  scrupulous  spirits.  But  let  him  con- 
sider that,  whilst  the  monarch  of  the  forest  is  slowly 
maturing  to  his  noble  stature,  generation  after  genera- 
tion of  the  grasses  and  weeds  that  shaded  his  infancy 
wither  and  rot  at  his  foot.  In  a  quarter  of  a  century 
many  shining  names  grow  dim,  many  budding  honors 
are  blighted.  But  one  man  in  a  hundred  lives  to  come 
to  any  thing.  We  are  too  anxious  to  reap  before  we 
sow.  "  The  husbandman  waiteth  for  the  precious  fruit 
of  the  earth,  and  hath  long  patience  for  it,  until  he  re- 
ceive the  early  and  latter  ram."  The  objects  which 
young  men  propose  to  themselves  can  hardlj^  be  too 
great ;  but  they  may  be  too  near.  Impatience  is  the 
sin  of  youth.  Unity  and  steadiness  of  pursuit  are  the 
true  secret  of  ultimate  success. 

It  is,  however,  an  animating  thought,  to  the  man  of 
patient,  iron  industry,  that,  if  its  great  rewards  must 
all  be  eanied,  they  are  seldom  withheld.     The  market 

19  * 


J       222  CHARACTER. 

\  seems  overstocked ;  and  a  young  man's  spirits  sink 

\  vnX\\m  him  at  the  thought  of  so  many  to  contend  with, 

\  and  so  little  to  be  divided  among  them  all.     But  the 

J  rarest   of  aU   things   in   the   world   is   character  —  the 

s  growth   of  personal  pains,    and   sacrifices,  and  trials. 

J  Every  place  and  every  calling  wants  it.     It  is  never 

seen  begging  bread.     Any  price  wUl  be  paid  for  it. 
To  the  young  man,  then  :  Be  encouraged.     Time  is 

not  wanting ;  opjiortunities  wait  for  you ;  means  are 

]  within  yoiu"  reach.     The  cultivation  of  all  your  powers 

\  is  possible  to  you  ;  education,  in  its  truest  sense,  is 

I  practicable.     Only  resolve  ;  begin ;  begin  somewhere  ; 

<  begin  now.  Husband  your  resoiirces  ;  seize  the  fugi- 
I  tivc  moments.  Open  the  eye  and  the  ear  ;  assume  that 
\  any  thing  can  be  learned  ;  doubt  not  that  every  thing 
'>  can  teach.  Slirink  not  from  the  arduous ;  despise  not 
\  the  humble.  Be  not  ashamed  to  be  ignorant,  nor 
i  afraid  to  inquire.     Months  and  years  roll  round  faster 

<  than  Ave  think.  And  the  thoughtful  man,  the  patient 
/  cultivator  of  himself,  is  rich  in  knowlcdLrc  and  in  merit 
j  before  he  is  aware. 

>  And  then  think  of  the  reward,  —  tlie  conscious- 
^  ness  of  mind,  the  inward  sense  of  a  manly  spirit,  the 
i  feeling  of  a  moral  dignity,  —  resources  in  our  own  na- 
ture beyond  the  reach  of  accident,  oxit  of  the  dominion 
of  power,  a  part  of  ourselves,  independent  of  life,  im- 
perishable, immortal.  Fortunate  man,  favored  above 
the  ordinary  mercy  of  heaven,  who,  in  this  free  loud, 


SONG    OF    THE    TACTORY    GIKL.  223 

and  in  this  clear,  bright  day,  has  life  yet  before  him, 
and  sees  the  -way  still  open  for  him  to  eminence  and 
happiness. 

Ckarks  B.  liaddack. 


SONG    OF    THE    FACTORY    GIRL. 

O,  SING  me  the  song  of  the  Factory  Girl, 

So  merry,  and  glad,  and  free  ! 
The  bloom  on  her  cheeks,  of  health  how  it  speaks  — 

O,  a  happy  creature  is  she  !  ^ 

She  tends  the  loom,  she  watches  the  spindle. 

And  cheerfully  toileth  away ; 
'Mid  the  din  of  wheels,  how  her  bright  eyes  kindle. 

And  her  bosom  is  ever  so  gay. 

O,  sing  me  the  song  of  the  Factory  Gui, 

Who  hath  breathed  our  mountain  air  ; 
She  toils  for  her  home,  and  the  joys  to  come 

To  the  loved  ones  gathered  there. 
She  tends  the  loom,  she  watches  the  spindle. 

And  she  fancies  her  mother  near  — 
How  glows  her  heart,  and  her  bright  eyes  kindle. 

As  she  thinks  of  her  sisters  dear. 


224 


SONG    OF   THE     FACTORY    GIRL. 


O,  sing  mc  the  song  of  the  Factory  Girl, 

"Who  no  titled  lover  doth  oa^ti,  — 
"Who  -with  treasures  more  rare,  is  more  free  icoxa.  care 

Than  a  queen  upon  her  throne. 
She  tends  the  loom,  she  -watches  the  spindle, 

And  she  parts  her  glossy  hair  ; 
I  kno-w  by  her  smile,  as  her  bright  eyes  kindle, 

That  a  cheerful  spirit  is  there. 

O,  sing  me  the  song  of  the  Factory  Girl, 

Whose  task  is  so  easy  and  light ; 
She  toileth  away  till  the  evening  gray, 

And  her  sleep  is  sweet  at  night. 
She  tends  the  loom,  she  watches  the  spindle, 

And  0,  she  is  honest  and  free  ! 
I  know  by  her  laugh,  as  her  bright  eyes  kindle, 

That  few  arc  more  hajipy  than  she. 

O,  sing  mc  the  song  of  the  Factory  Girl, 

As  she  walks  her  spacioxis  hall, 
And  trims  the  rose,  and  the  orange  that  blows 

In  tl>o  window,  scenting  all. 
She  tends  the  loom,  and  watches  the  spindle. 

And  she  skijjs  in  tlie  bracing  air ; 
I  know  by  her  eyes,  as  their  bright  lights  kindle, 

Tliat  a  (juccnly  heart  is  there. 

O,  sing  me  tlie  song  of  the  Factory  Girl  — 

The  honest,  and  fair,  and  true,  — 


K- 


THE    LOVED    AND    LOST.  225 


"Whose  name  has  rung,  Avhose  deeds  have  been  sung, 

O'er  the  land  and  waters  blue. 
I, 
5         She  tends  the  loom,  she  watches  the  spindle, 

<  And  lier  words  are  cheerful  and  gay  ; 

\         O,  give  me  her  smile,  as  her  bright  eyes  kindle. 

And  she  toils  and  sings  away. 

J.  H.  Warland. 


THE    LOVED    AND    LOST. 

I  SHALL  not  see  again  a  brow 
So  pure  and  proud  as  thine ; 

It  seemed  an  altar,  formed  to  glow 
'Mid  thoughts  and  dreams  divine. 

I  shall  not  meet  again  an  eye 

So  eloquent  and  bright ; 
The  stars  that  gem  the  evening  sky 

Alone  recall  its  light. 

I  ne'er  again  a  voice  may  hear 

Of  such  a  'witching  tone, 
Or  bask  beneath  a  smile  so  dear 

As  thine,  my  lost,  my  o^mi. 


a^. 


226 


HIGUEK. 


My  beautiful,  my  cherished  flower  ! 

Thy  footstep's  lightest  fall 
Stirred  in  my  heart  a  magic  power, 

And  made  earth  musical.  • 

I  know  not  why  I  yet  live  on. 

Since  thou  art  fled  afar  ; 
The  glorj'  of  my  life  hath  gone 

AVith  thee,  my  moi-ning  star. 

But  thou,  my  bird,  hath  spread  thy  plumes, 

In  better,  brighter  spheres  ; 
Far  from  the  dreary  shade  of  tombs, 

The  bitterness  of  tears. 

O.  W.  Whitticr. 


H  I  G  11  E  11 . 


HiOHEu  !  It  is  ft  word  of  noble  meaning  —  the  in- 
spiration of  all  great  docils  —  the  sympathetic  chain 
that  lends,  link  by  Unk,  tlic  impassioned  sovil  to  its 
zenith  of  glory,  and  still  holds  its  mysterious  object, 
dancing  and  glittt'ring  amojig  the  stars. 

Higher !    lisjis   the   iiilant   that   clasps   ita   paieut's 


II- 


HIGHER.  227 


knees,  and  makes  its  feeble  essay  to  rise  from  the  floor. 
It  is  the  first  inspiration  of  childhood,  to  burst  the 
narrow  confines  of  the  cradle,  in  -which  its  sweetest 
moments  have  been  passed. 

Higher  !  laughs  the  proud  schoolboy  at  liis  swing ; 
or,  as  he  climbs  the  tallest  tree  of  the  forest,  that  he 
may  look  down  upon  his  less  adventurous  comrades 
^^■iih.  a  flush  of  exultation,  and  abroad  over  the  fields, 
the  meadows,  and  his  native  Adllage. 

Higher  !  earnestly  breathes  the  student  of  philoso- 
phy and  nature.  He  has  a  host  of  rivals,  but  he  must 
eclipse  them  all.  The  midnight  oil  burns  dim,  but  he 
finds  light  and  knowledge  in  the  lamps  of  heaven,  and 
his  soul  is  never  weary  when  the  last  of  them  is  hid 
beneath  the  curtams  of  the  morning. 

And  higher  !  his  voice  thunders  forth,  when  the 
dignity  of  manhood  has  mantled  his  form,  and  the 
multitude  is  listening  vrith  delight  to  his  oracles  burn- 
ing with  eloquence,  and  ringing  like  true  steel  in  the 
\  cause  of  freedom  and  right.  And  when  time  has 
I  changed  his  locks  to  silver,  when  the  maiden  gather- 
I  ing  flowers  by  the  roadside,  and  the  boy  in  the  field, 
'/  bow  in  reverence  as  he  passes,  and  the  squire  and  the 
^  peasant  look  to  him  with  honor  —  can  he  still  breathe 
)  forth  from  his  heart  the  fond  wishes  of  the  past. 
I  Higher  yet !  He  has  reached  the  apex  of  earthly 
S  honor,  yet  his  spirit  bums  as  warm  as  in  youth,  though 
I     with  a  steadier  and  paler  light;  and  it  would  even 


I  22S  LINES.  S 

5  borrow  -vvings  and  soar  to  heaven,  leaving  its  tenement 

i  to  moiilder  among  the  laurels  he  has  wound  around 

)  it  for   the  never-ending  glory  to  be    reached  in  the 

I  presence  of  the  Most  High. 

>  J.  P.  Chase,  (^Manchester.) 


LINES. 

O,  CAN  there  be  a  brighter  state 
"NMiere  mind  its  thii'st  shall  satiate, 
Where  every  ■wish  and  every  thought 
Shall  to  one  common  i=icene  be  brought  ? 

Go,  watch  the  student's  burning  eye 
When  he  is  told  that  he  must  die, 
That  classic  lore  and  history's  page 
ShiUl  never  more  liis  thoughts  engage  ; 

That  he  in  vain  has  wasted  hcidth. 
And,  deaf  to  j)lcasure  and  to  wealth, 
lias  cherished  liere  tliosc  jewels  fair. 
That  death  shall  from  liis  bosom  tear  ; 

He'll  point  you  to  those  fairer  flowers 
Tliat  bloom  amid  cclesliid  bowers, 
Where  streams  of  knowledge  How  for  aye, 
And  founts  of  pleasure  ever  play. 


THE   MAN    I    LIKE. 


229 


Within  the  tomes  that  mortals  find, 
He  never  found  a  perfect  mind  : 
Now  heaven's  bright  volumes  open  lie, 
To  Avin  his  fond,  impassioned  eye. 

His  spirit  there'll  delighted  see 
The  bro-ws  he  kissed  in  infancy  — 
The  brows  that  in  celestial  clime 
With  brighter  wreaths  seraphic  sliine  ; 

And  genius-lighted  thei-e  shall  be 
Forever  lost  in  ecstasy  ; 
And  godlike  mind  shall  ever  rove 
In  novelties'  ethereal  grove. 

Yes,  in  that  hour  when  nature  fails, 
And  visions  bright  his  spirit  haUs  — 
In  accents  soft  tlieir  voices  come. 
And  beckon  to  his  spirit's  home. 

Olke,  {Manchester.) 


THE    MAN    I    LIKE. 


I  LIKE  the  man  who  vdll  maintain 

A  dignity  and  grace  ; 
Who  can  be  social  when  there's  need^ 

And  always  knows  his  place. 


Si' 


230 


THE    MAN    I    LIKE. 


I  love  the  man  whose  blandest  smile 
Is  seen  at  home,  "  sweet  home," 

"WTio,  when  his  daily  task  is  o'er, 
Has  no  desii'C  to  roam. 

I  like  the  man  whose  piercmg  glance 

"SVill  make  the  guUty  start, 
As  though  he  had  the  power  to  search 

His  very  inmost  heart. 

I  like  the  man  whose  generous  soul 

Pities  the  orphan's  Avoe ; 
Who  never  lets  the  needy  one 

Unaided  from  him  go. 

I'd  have  him  generous,  good,  and  just. 

As  God  made  man  to  be  ; 
The  noblest  work  below  the  sun 

Is  such  an  one  as  he. 


And  now  I've  told  you  whom  I  like. 

And  you  may  think  the  same  ; 
Sliould  Mr.  Such-a-onc  come  along. 

That  I  Avoiild  change  my  ntuue. 

Clara,  ^Manchester.) 


LEGISLATION.  231       \ 


LEGISLATION. 

The  legislature  has  just  been  here,  and  dispersed. 
They  are  gone.  I  miss  them  a  good  deal.  My  garret 
window  looks  right  out  upon  the  great  State  House 
yard,  where  they  used  to  swarm  coming  out.  I  go 
through  it  going  home.  I  shall  miss  the  squads  of 
members  standing  ruminating,  legislatively,  by  the 
gravelled  paths  —  ruminating  and  nominating  at  the 
corners,  on^the  flights  of  steps  up  to  the  State  House. 
I  tised  to  hear,  as  I  passed  near  the  house,  the  sonorous 
eloquence  of  some  orator  in  debate.  I  shall  miss  it 
now  —  and  the  long  rows  of  hats  in  the  great  ^\^.n- 
dows  —  all  gone  —  all  stUl. 

Well,  they  have  held  a  session.  They  have  legis- 
lated. They  had  a  governor  —  who  had  liis  council. 
They  sat,  and  deliberated,  and  governed.  I  saw  the 
governor  and  his  counsellors.  They  looked  same  as 
any  body.  A  little  grave  —  not  much.  They  laughed, 
I  saw,  some  of  them.  Bought  apples  of  the  boys  at 
the  State  House  door  —  eat  them  —  spit  round  on  the 
s  steps  —  same  a.s  any  body.  The  legislature  spit  a  good 
J     deal.     The  stone  steps  are  pretty  much  stained  by  it,  a 


232  LEGISLATION. 

kind  of  tobacco  color,  where  they  went  in  and  out. 
And  little  wads  l)-ing  about,  the  size  of  those  dorbugs  — 
looking  as  if  the  general  court  had  been  che^^ing  upon 
them.  All  gone  now,  and  it  won't  cost  a  ten-dollar 
^  bill  to  clean  all  up,  and  make  it  as  wholesome  as  it  was 
I  before  the  session.  They  have  really  done  the  people 
I  service  —  no  dispute.  They  took  the  yeas  and  nays  a 
\  number  of  tunes,  to  my  knowledge.  I  went  into  the 
\  gallery  up  above,  a  number  of  times,  —  a  place  pre- 
l  pared  for  idle  and  for  low-spu-ited  people  to  go  to,  — 
I  and  I  looked  down  and  saw  what  they  did.  They 
took  the  yeas  and  nays  of  the  enthe  body  severiU 
times.  Once  they  got  them  wrong,  and  the  head  man 
declared  the  count  both  ways  —  once  for,  and  once 
agamst.  They  rectified  it,  though.  All  these  records 
are  kept  a  record  of,  for  public  use.  And  they  gave 
the  go-by  to  several  laAvs  that  seemed  to  me  as  if  they 
would  have  been  very  bad  ones,  if  they  had  passed. 
They  contrived  to  "  postpone  "  them  "  indctinitcly,"  as 
they  called  it,  which  I  imagine  means  putting  them  by 
pretty  permanently  —  nt  least  for  the  present,  and  till 
another  session  comes  round.  O,  they  do  a  good  deal 
for  the  pul)lic.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  them,  those  laws 
would  not  have  been  "  indefinitely  postponed."  They 
couldn't  have  been.  Nobody  but  the  general  court  has 
the  power  to  postpone  n  law  indctinitcly.  The  people 
couldn't  got  a  bill  "  indefinitely  postponed,"  if  it  wasn't 
\    for  this  general  court.     It  is  a  very  rare  power,  as  well 


lEGISLATIOX.  233      ^ 

> 


as  salutary.     I  thought  I  should  like  to  sec  them  post- 
pone some  more  of  their  bills. 

But  then  -we  must  have  laws.  And  -we  must  have 
fresh  ones.  They  must  be  made  or  touched  over  every 
year,  or  they  Avould  grow  stale  and  common.  The 
people  -would  find  them  out,  after  a  whUe,  and  would 
lose  theu-  resj^ect  for  them.  They  don't  know  any 
thing  about  them,  now,  and  have  a  great  respect  for 
them,  and  place  great  reliance  on  them.  The  lawyers 
know  aU  about  them,  and  so  do  the  judges. 

They  passed  one  law,  I  am  told,  doing  away  with 
great  trainings.  They  didn't  quite  pass  it.  It  wasn't 
"  indefinitely  postponed  "  —  but  then  the  governor  got 
the  bill,  and  carried  it  away  -wifh  him  in  his  pocket. 
Another  way  they  have  of  preventing  the  passage  of 
bad  laws,  and  shows  the  importance  of  having  gov- 
ernors. If  we  hadn't  had  a  governor,  the  bill  destroy- 
ing the  trainings  couldn't  have  been  prevented,  in  this 
way,  from  becoming  a  law,  and  we  should  have  had  no 
musters.  Now  we  shall  have  musters.  The  governor, 
I  am  told,  put  that  bill  into  his  pocket,  and  that  stopped 
it  at  once  from  becoming  a  law.  For  a  biU,  if  it  has 
passed  ever  so  many  houses,  is  no  more  a  law,  when  it 
gets  into  a  governor's  pocket,  than  so  much  white 
paper.  And  the  houses  can't  get  it  out  agam,  either 
of  them  —  nor  both  of  them.  Not  if  they  were  unan- 
imous and  concurred,  both.  If  it  gets  into  the  gov- 
ernor's pocket,  they  can  never  get  it  out  agaui.     And 

20  * 


234  I     SING    TO    HIM.  \ 

i 

he  can  pocket  all  the  bills  they  caii  make.     And  if  he     \ 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to,  they  couldn't  pass  any 
laws.     It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  governors. 

JV.  P.  Rogers. 


I    SING    TO    HIM. 


I  SING  to  him  —  I  dream  he  hears 

The  song  he  used  to  love, 
And  oft  that  blessed  fancy  cheers 

And  bears  my  thou<j;hts  above. 
Ye  say,  'tis  idle  thus  to  dream  — 

Ihit  why  believe  it  so  ? 
It  is  the  spirit's  meteor  gleam 

To  soothe  the  pang  of  woe. 

Love  gives  to  Nature's  voice  a  tone 

That  true  hearts  understand  ; 
The  sky,  the  earth,  the  forest  lone, 

Arc  peopled  by  his  waiul. 
Sweet  fancies  all  our  fancies  thrill, 

While  gazing  on  a  flower. 
And  from  the  gently  wliispering  rill 

Arc  heard  the  words  of  power. 


I    CAN  TELL   OF  A  HOME.  23'5 

I  breathe  the  dear  and  cherished  name, 

And  long-lost  scenes  arise  ; 
I  Life's  glowing  landscape  spreads  the  same, 

The  same  hope's  kindling  skies  ; 
The  violet  bank,  the  moss-fringed  seat 

Beneath  the  drooping  tree, 
The  clock  that  chimed  the  hour  to  meet, 

My  buried  love,  mth  thee  ;  — 

O,  these  are  all  before  me,  -when 

In  fancy's  realms  I  rove : 
Why  urge  mc  to  the  world  again  ? 

Why  say,  the  ties  of  love, 
That  death's  cold,  cruel  grasp  has  riven, 

Unite  no  more  below  ? 

I'U  sing  to  him,  —  for,  though  in  heaven. 

He  sui-ely  heeds  my  woe  ! 

Sarah  J.  Hale. 


I    CAN    TELL    OF    A    HOME. 

I  CAN  tell  of  a  home,  a  fairy-like  home. 
And  from  thence  soft  visions  of  beauty  come, 
Like  the  mellow  tints  of  hUl  and  vale  — 
Lilie  the  balmy  breath  of  the  southern  gale  — 


/ 


236 


I   CAN   TELL   OF   A   HOME. 


Like  the  music  of  -waves  in  their  moonlit  dance, 
Or  a  dream  of  delight  which  the  spii-it  enchants, 

I  can  thinli  of  the  spot  -vvhero,  in  childhood's  glee, 

I  roved  lilce  the  butterfly  over  the  lea. 

Or  do^\•n  by  the  side  of  the  pebbly  brook, 

Where  I  gathered  wild  flowers  from  the  grassy  nook. 

O,  dear  are  the  paths  I  was  wont  to  roam  — 

But  it  is  not  there,  my  fairy-like  home. 

I  have  lieard  of  a  land  where  the  dwellers  ai-e  fair. 

And  birds  of  bright  plumage  enliven  the  air 

"Where  the  citron,  and  orange,  and  pineapple  grow. 
And  spicy  the  breath  of  the  zcjAyrs  that  blow, 
And  tlie  sky  hath  ever  a  summer-like  bloom  ; 
But  it  is  not  there,  my  beautiful  home. 

Would  yc  find  it  ?   Then  sock  in  a  (^uict  spot. 
Where  the  spirit  of  bitterness  entcrcth  not ; 
Whose  gems,  undiminished  in  lustre,  shall  shine, 
When  lieth  in  ashes  the  gold  of  tlic  mine. 
From  the  tunuoils  of  life  there's  quiet  and  rest; 
O,  earth's  fairest  home  is  a  chosen  one's  breast. 

C  f.  C 


I§lv,A->^s/^^ 


-11 


THE   BROTHERHOOD   OF   MAN.  237 


THE    BROTHERHOOD     OF    MAN. 

The  great  fact  tliat  is  beiiig  developed  in  the  present 
age  is,  The  Brotherhood  of  the  Human  Race.  Hereto- 
fore, man  has  given  the  highest  significance  to  the  in- 
tellectual element  of  his  nature.  He  has  put  forth 
those  iJowers  of  mind  by  which  he  judges  of  the  causes 
of  things,  and  the  consequences  of  events  ;  by  which 
he  discovers  the  nature  of  the  elements,  and  learns  to 
control  their  forces,  and  subdue  them  to  his  use  ;  by 
which  he  is  enabled  to  fathom  the  events  of  the  past, 
and  philosopliize  upon  the  aifairs  of  the  futui-e.  In- 
\    tellectual  power  is  that  by  which  man  stands  before 

>  us  clothed  in  the  mysterious  might  of  historian,  phi- 
J  losopher,  and  poet ;  opening  the  abyss  of  the  past,  re- 
)  vealing  the  deep  secrets  of  nature,  and  creating  a  world 
\  of  imasfination,  and  filling  it  with  beautiful  forms  of 
',    things  unknown,  giving  to  each  a  "  local  habitation  and 

>  a  name."  It  is  this  gift,  too,  that  overshadows  the 
\    inventive  genius  of  the  world.   It  imj^arts  to  it  a  tough 

>  faculty  for  thinking,  and  beholds  the  curious  improve- 
\  ments  in  the  arts  and  the  implements  of  industry 
/  which  have  added  so  much  to  the  conveniences  of  life, 
<  and  augmented  so  vastly  the  sources  of  human  happi- 
\    ness.     These  all  spring  forth,  like  the  full-armed  !Mi- 


^ 


238  THE   BliOTHLKHOOD   OF  MAX. 

nerva,  from  the  laborf?  of  capacious  intellect,  aiid  help 
to  give  cligmty  to  human  nature. 

But  another  element  is  now  manifesting  itself  in  our 
world,  which  imparts  a  diviner  significance  to  human 
life  ;  —  the  moral  element  in  man's  nature  —  that  wliich 
unites  him  with  God  and  his  fellow-man.  It  is  the  I 
develojjmcnt  of  this  mor;d  element  in  man,  that  begins 
to  gladden  the  present,  and  gives  such  bright  promise  j 
for  the  future.  Man,  with  a  heart  and  a  soul  —  man,  >' 
the  brother,  the  cliild  of  the  common  Father,  a  mem-  i 
bcr  of  the  same  family,  possesses  a  centralizing  force,  > 
and  we  are  di-awn  unto  him  bv  a  power  "  we  could  not  \ 
resist  if  we  woiild,  and  would  not  if  we  could."  Tliis 
new  fact  of  the  brotherhood  oi  our  race,  is  breaking 
the  bondage  of  selfishness,  and  is  di'awmg  the  individ- 
ual closer  and  closer  into  harmony  with  the  great 
whole.  Touched  by  its  magnetic  influence,  man  now 
feels  the  force  of  sympathy,  gentleness,  and  love,  and 
begins  to  see,  and  act,  and  live,  as  a  brother  of  the 
common  family.  He  realizes  the  connecting  link  that 
binds  liini  to  tlie  lowest  state  of  humanity,  and,  under- 
neath aU  its  outward  forjns  lie  sees  a  common  nature, 
and  feels  the  throbbings  of  a  common  sympathy. 

Every  thing  is  prolific  witli  the  j)roofs  of  this  liigher  ^ 
development  of  man's  natiiie.  "NVe  lieliohl  it  in  the  ( 
bounties  of  his  benevolence,  in  the  depths  of  his  love,  i 
in  the  ministrations  of  his  mercy,  and  in  the  wide  | 
reach   of  his   charity,  wliich   breaks   away   fi'om   the     ; 


5  THE    BllOTHEKHOOD   OF   MAN".  _       239 


^  bounds  of  coiintry  and  kindred,  and  sends  up  its  peti- 
I  tions,  and  puts  forth  its  energies,  in  behalf  of  the  whole 
race.  It  goes  -nith  him,  and  garnishes  his  brow  with 
beauty  as  he  passes  along  the  path  of  prosperity ;  it 
walks  with  him  side  by  side  in  adversity,  and,  like  a 
ministering  spirit,  it  leads  him  along  the  track  of  the 
pestilence,  gives  him  the  glory  of  its  own  spirit,  and 
makes  him  a  minister  of  mercy  to  suffering  and  stricken 
humanity  throughout  the  earth.  And  all  this,  because 
man  begins  to  feel  the  ties  of  a  common  brotherhood, 
and  is  learning  that  the  individual  is  one,  and  one  only, 
of  a  great  family. 

But  perhaps  the  best  development  of  this  divine 
idea  may  be  seen  in  the  reforms  of  the  age.  It  infuses 
into  them  all  the  spirit  of  universality.  It  pleads  for 
the  right,  and  speaks  boldly  agamst  the  -\\rong,  in  high 
places  and  low.  It  throws  around  the  sinful  the  chain 
of  sj-mpathy,  and  lifts  him  from  his  degradation  and 
his  crimes  —  it  cries  out  against  blood  and  death, 
whether  on  the  battle-field  or  the  scaffold,  and 
asks  for  repentance,  and  mercy,  and  forgiveness  — 
it  lifts  its  voice  on  the  floor  of  congress,  and  the 
\     slave  in  his  chains  hears  it,  and  is  hopeful  and  glad  — 

<  it  is  borne  on  every  breeze,  and  whispers  peace  and 

\     love. 

\         The  Brotherhood  of  the  Human  Race  !     Let  this  truth 

(     spread  abroad,  with  its  all-absorbing  power,  cementing 

<  the  broken  links  of  humanity,  uniting  the  interests  of 


24C  TO    A    n.VCHELOK. 

our  race,  uiitil  all  sellislmess  and  wrong  shall  be  done 
away,  and  man,  universal  man,  shall  rise  to  that  stand- 
ard of  perfection  destined  by  a  beneficent  Creator. 

B.  jV.  Tillotson,  {ManchMter.) 


TO    A    BACHELOR. 

[The  following  is  inserted  as  an  offset  to  the  Bachelor's  Song. 
Its  authorship  is  unknown  to  the  editor.] 

Don't  tell  me  you  haven't  got  time. 

That  other  tilings  claim  your  attention, 
There's  not  the  least  reason  or  rhJ^nc 

In  the  wisest  excuse  you  can  mention. 
You  may  dream  of  poetical  fame, 

But  the  story  may  chance  to  miscan-y  ; 
The  best  way  of  sending  one's  name 

To  posterity,  dear  sir,  is  to  mtUTy ! 

At  once,  then,  bid  your  doubtinj;;  good-by. 

And  disini.ss  all  fanta.stic  alarms  ; 
I'll  be  sworn  you've  a  girl  in  your  eye 

That  you  ought  to  have  li;ul  in  your  arms  ! 
Some  beautiful  maiden —  God  bless  her  !  — 

Uneiicumborcd  with  pride  or  witli  pelf  — 
Of  every  true  charm  the  possessor, 

Aud  given  to  no  fault  but  yourself. 


TO    A    BACHELOR.  241 

I  could  give  you  a  bushel  of  reasons 

For  choosing  the  "  double  estate  ;  " 
It  agrees  with  all  climates  and  seasons, 

Though  it  may  be  adopted  too  late. 
Then  delay  not  a  moment  to  win 

A  prize  that's  truly  worth  -ninning  — 
Celibacy,  dear  sii-,  is  a  sin, 

And  badly  prolific  of  sinning. 

Then  there's  the  economy  clear, 

By  poetical  algebra  shown  ; 
If  your  wife  has  a  grief,  or  a  tear. 

One  haK,  by  the  law,  is  your  own. 
And  as  to  the  joys,  by  division. 

They  somehow  are  doubled,  'tis  said. 
Though  I  never  could  see  the  addition 

Quite  plain  in  the  item  of  bread. 

Remember  —  I  do  not  pretend 

There's  any  thing  perfect  about  it. 
But  this  I'll  maintain  to  the  end. 

Life's  very  imperfect  without  it. 
'Tis  not  that  there's  poetry  in  it. 

As  doubtless  there  may  be  to  those 
AVho  know  how  to  find  and  to  spin  it. 

But  I'll  warrant  you  excellent  prose. 

Don't  search  for  an  angel  a  minute, 
For  suppose  you  succeed  in  the  sequel, 


21 


242  THE    NE\Y    HAMPSHIRE    GIIILS. 

After  all,  the  deuce  would  be  in  it, 

For  the  match  would  he  highly  unequal. 

Tlie  angels,  it  must  be  confessed, 
In  t?us  world  are  rather  uncommon  ; 

Yet  I  wish  you  a  blessing  twice  blest  — 
Go  marry  a  beautiful  woman. 


THE    NEW    HA  Mrs  HIRE     GIRLS. 

See  how  yon  smiling  sisters  stand 

To  greet  the  sons  who  roam ; 
Each  daughter  waves  her  snowy  hand, 

To  give  the  "  welcome  home  !  " 
See  how  they  form,  with  lips  and  eyes, 

Hope's  radiant  band  of  pearls  ; 
Match  if  you  can,  beneath  the  skies. 

Our  de;u-  New  Hampshire  gii-ls  ! 

What  though  the  autumn  rahi-drops  fi-ecze 

AVherc  those  we  love  were  born  ? 
They  win  thcii*  beauty  from  the  breeze, 

Their  vigor  fnun  tlie  morn  ! 
The  tempests  rouiul  tluir  dwellings  shout, 

And  howls  November's  storm  ; 
For  us  their  (ires  are  never  out, 

Whoso  hearts  ore  always  warm. 


MY    FIRST    LOVE.  243 

Go  forth,  poor  exiled  youth,  away, 

Where  other  maidens  dwell ; 
Come  back,  v.-hen  aU  your  locks  are  gray, 

To  those  you  loved  so  well. 
Come  back,  though  time  has  left  yoii  poor, 

And  all  your  sands  have  run  — 
There  stands  your  mother  at  the  door, 

To  clasp  her  darling  son. 

God  bless  the  troop  whose  nightly  prayers 

Rise  up  for  those  wiio  roam, 
God  bless  them,  'mid  their  daily  cares  — 

Those  guardian  saints  of  home  ! 
Forget  not,  then,  to  mingle  here 

With  wit  and  song  your  pearls, 
Aiid  give  the  swelling  heart's  full  cheer 

For  our  New  Hampshire  giiis  ! 

J.  T.  Fields. 


MY    FIRST    LOVE. 

What  nature,  if  it  possess  the  iota  of  a  man  in  its 
composition,  can  resist  the  combined  influences  of  an 
easy  cliair,  a  Spanish,  and  a  glowing  coal  fire  ?  I  have 
been  sitting  for  the  last  half  hour,  with  my  feet  upon 
the  fender,  cogitating  upon  the  strange  perverseness  of 


244  MY    FIRST    LOVE. 


human  nature,  till  every  particle  of  anger  and  misan- 
i  thropy,  drop  by  drop,  has  oozed  from  the  inner  man, 
\  and,  m  lieu  thereof,  a  qxiiet  and  forgiving  and  generous 
I  spirit  has  settled  upon  the  shattered  altars  of  my  affec- 
^  tions.  Surelj'  "  man  is  the  paragon  of  animals."  One 
^  moment  exclaiming  -with  the  bitterness  of  Hamlet, 
^  "  Man  delights  me  not,  nor  woman  neither ;  "  the  next, 
^  willing  to  embrace  the  universe  in  his  lovo,  and  turning 
I  aside  "  to  let  the  reptile  live."  Whose  heart  has  not 
f  bled  beneath  the  dagger  thrusts  of  sarcasm  and  cal- 
p  umny  ?  Who  but,  goaded  by  some  besetting  sin,  has 
^  added  to  his  brother's  burden  of  human  ills  ? 
I  Alas  !  how  little  the  world  know  of  the  length, 
^  breadth,  height,  and  depth  of  the  vast  thi-ong  that 
i    move  ai'ound  us  !    How  can  our  neighbor  fathom  the 

>  abyss  of  our  hearts  ?  How  read  the  hiatory  of  fur- 
's rowed  brows,  or  rightly  interpret  the  reserved  air  and 
\    heartless  mien  ? 

j        Thoy  onll  mo  a  baoholor,  and  so  I  am  !     lUit  I  M-as 

>  not  always  tho  wolf  upon  the  roof  to  bo  railed  at  by 
\    every  passing  kid.     I  have   had  my  fancies  —  yos  — 

and  my  loves  too.  They  have  been  sacrod  romiiiis- 
concos  —  almost  breathing  spirits,  with  which  I  have 
communed,  and  cherished  in  my  heart  of  hearts  as  too 
holy  for  the  profane  comment  of  humanity.  Hut  the 
spell  is  broken,  and  I  cast  them  forth,  like  loavos  and 
fishes,  to  be  devoured  by  tho  famishing  curiosity  of  tho 
multitude. 


iBhv^/VNN 


^n 


MY    FIRST    LOVE.  245 

But  I  was  not  ahvays  as  I  am  now.  Once  I  had  a 
loving  spirit,  and,  as  girls  are  more  lovable  than  any 
thing  else,  it  was  natural  that  I  should  love  them  most. 
My  first  flame  Avas  a  little  miniature  of  the  charming 
sex,  generally  of  half  a  dozen  summers,  y.-ith.  large 
melting  blue  eyes,  plump  rosy  cheeks,  and,  of  course, 
sunny  hair.  How  many,  many  times  I  have  crept 
stealthily  beneath  the  wooden  benches  of  our  old 
schoolhouse  to  where  she  lay  sleeping,  that  I  might 
gaze  more  closely  upon  her  innocent  face,  and  bend  my 
cheek  to  catch  the  soft  breath  that  stole  from  her  Hps. 
Poor  cherub !  I  have  stood  many  a  time  since  by  her 
little  grave,  and  read  over  and  over  again  the  words 
upon  her  gravestone,  until  the  letters,  stone,  and  sod 
blended  into  one,  and  memory  glided  back  through 
the  long  vista  of  years,  checkered  by  errors  and  blasted 
hopes,  untU,  a  child  again,  I  knelt  fondly  by  the  fairy 
form,  long  since  mouldered  to  dust.  O,  how  beautiful 
she  was  in  her  death- sleep  !  There  was  nothing  in  her 
simple  muslin  frock,  and  thick-clustering  ringlets  inter- 
woven with  the  mjTrtle,  to  teU.  of  the  charnel-house. 
Her  cheek  even  was  not  pale,  and  smiles  lingered  upon 
her  lips.  Heavily  the  clods  rattled  upon  her  coffin ; 
and  when  the  weeping  mourners  and  careless  multi- 
tude had  all  disappeared,  I  retvu-ned  to  the  spot,  and 
prostrating  myself  upon  the  broken  sods,  wept  in  the 
fulness  of  my  sovl.  I  had  never  seen  death  before, 
and  now  she,  the  dearest  idol  I  had  known,  was  its 


21  « 


246  MY    FIllST    LOVE. 

victim.  Tlien,  tales  I  had  heard  of  living  burials  were 
recalled,  and  ■\\-ith  fresh  agony  I  remembered  how  life- 
like she  had  looked,  and  listened  breathlessly  for  some 
moan  of  returning  consciousness. 

Alas  !  nothing  was  heard  but  the  throbbings  of  my 
oviTi  burstmg  heart,  and  I  groaned  aloud,  "  She  Ls  dead 
—  dead."  The  cold  stars  came  out  one  by  one,  and 
then  the  moon  looked  sor^o\^•fully  iovm  upon  the  new- 
ly made  grave.  But  still  I  lay  there,  dreaming  of  the 
hours  we  had  played  side  by  side  in  cliildLsh  inno- 
cence, of  all  the  kind  words  she  had  spoken,  the  toys 
she  had  given  mc,  the  flowers  I  had  toiled  to  gather 
for  her,  the  lessons  we  had  conned ;  then  came  sooth- 
ing recollections  of  the  infantine  prayers  we  had  mur- 
mured with  hands  xmited ;  and,  as  I  unconsciously 
sobbed  forth,  "  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  done 
in  heaven,"  softly,  but  distinctly,  I  heard  my  amen 
echoed,  and  the  voice  was  Mary  Lee's. 

I  liad  gone  to  that  grave  a  boy,  but  I  returned  from 
it  a  man.     My  very  being  was  changed.     I  am  much 
]     older  now ;  but  every  pulsation  of  my  young  heart  is 

\     engraved  upon  memory  as  with  living  fire  !     Still  in 

> 

i     my  ])rivatc  di-awcr,  in  a  fancy  envelope  cut  by  her  own 

I  hands,  is  a  ringlet  of  soft  fair  hair  —  'tis  tlic  hair  of 

{  Marv  I'Cc  I     Tears  ?    Well,  let  them  fall ;  thcv  arc  the 

i  lirst  I  liave  shed  for  years,   and  my  soul  will  be  p\irer 

I  for  them,     llow  mysteriously  early  aJfoctions  cling  to 

i  our  SpilitS  !  ^n  Old  Bachelor. 


H- 


■we'll  meet  again.  247 


"WE'LL    MEET    AGAIN." 

I  ASKED  if  I  should  cherish  still 

Those  di-cams  and  hopes  of  earlier  days. 

When  scarce  I  knew  why  on  her  face 
I  loved  to  gaze. 

The  hill  looked  down  with  calm  delight, 
While  silence  slumbered  on  the  plain ; 

She  only  said,  "  Good  night,  good  night ! 
We'll  meet  again." 

Those  random  gifts  should  I  preserve, 
And  deem  each  one  of  love  a  token. 

The  chance-plucked  leaf  —  the  sylvan  flower. 
Which  she  had  broken  ? 

O,  would  she  linger  in  her  walks 
A  moment  by  each  favorite  tree, 

And  gather  violets  from  the  turf, 
As  if  for  me  ? 

A  blush  —  a  smile  —  that  tone  so  slight, 
I  bent  to  catch  —  but  all  in  vain  ; 

I  only  heard  —  "  Good  night,  good  night ! 
We'll  meet  again." 


H- 


^- — ~^~g 


248 


CONQUEST    IS    0UK3. 


And  -would  she  think,  -when  groves  were  bare, 

How  kindly,  in  that  solemn  hour, 
My  holiest  thoughts  would  cluster  round 

The  withered  flo^^■er  r 

Her  glaucc  met  mine  —  their  deep  reply 

Those  glistening  eyes  could  not  retain  ; 

Her  glance  told  all :  "  Good-by  —  good-by  ! 

Fair  girl !  we'll  meet  again  !  " 

Samuel  T.  Bildrcl'i. 


CONQUEST    IS    OURS. 


CoxauEST  is  ours  —  o'er  land  and  sea 

Fling  ye  the  banner  out ; 
Conquest  is  ours  —  the  eagle  bira 
Her  drooping  pinion  lightly  stiiTcd, 
"NMiilc  from  afar  the  sound  was  heard, 
Conquest  is  ours  ! 

Conquest  is  ours  —  a  star  has  set, 

A  star  in  ficedora's  crowni ; 
Far  in  the  west,  and  over  nil, 
lied  war  has  hung  its  darksome  pall ; 
No  mirth  is  hoard  in  Mexico's  liall  — 
Conquest  is  ours  ! 


i/'VS.-V'VVS-^'*. 


CONQUEST    IS    OUBS.  249 

Conquest  is  ours  —  in  homes  as  fair, 

Where  hearts  as  true 
As  yet  Ne-\v  England  ever  knew, 
Hushed  is  the  song  and  revel  now  ; 
Grief  sits  enthi-oned  on  many  a  brow  — 
Conquest  is  ours. 

Conquest  is  ours  —  a  nation  stands 
With  mourning  chaplets  in  her  hands  ; 
And  by  an  injured  people's  hate, 
She  vows  that  she  vn}l  desolate 
This  northern  land,  so  proudly  great  — 
Conquest  is  ours. 

Conquest  is  ours  —  nail  to  the  mast, 

Where  they  will  wave  in  Freedom's  blast. 

The  "  stars  and  stripes,"  and  write  at  last 

In  words  of  blood,  that  all  may  see 

We've  had  a  glorious  victory, 

Conquest  is  ours  I 

H.  JV.  L. 


HAMPTON    BEACH. 

There  is  beauty  here  —  with  "  flashing  eyes  and 
footstei^s  free  "  —  buoyant,  gladsome  hearts,  and  spirits 
light  as  air  —  beauty  such  as  Nature  made  ;  as  yet  un- 


m- 


250  HAMPTOX    BEACH. 

affected  by  the  fooleries  of  fasliion  and  of  art  —  unprac- 
tised and  untaught,  save  m  the  generous  imiDulses  of 
the  soul.  Here,  too,  is  the  beauty  which  society  has 
made  —  enchased  in  gold  and  sUver  -workmanship  — 
that  which  shines  but  to  conquer,  and  conqiicrs  but  to 
torture.  Gallantry  is  never  wanting  here  —  -with  fomi 
and  step  all  tinn  —  -with  gentle  inclination  of  the  head 
and  graceful  wa^ig  of  the  hand,  ready  to  serve  ac- 
cording to  the  laws  of  chivalry. 

And  here  is  the  pohtician,  with  head  well  filled  with 
facts,  and  pockets  loaded  dovm  with  speeches  —  the 
merchant,  too,  from  his  counting-room,  and  the  me- 
chanic from  his  shop,  have  come,  each  to  snatch  a  day 
of  rest  and  prepare  anew  for  the  labors  of  life.  From 
city  and  from  country  they  have  gathered,  from  the 
upper  and  the  lower  ten  thousand  of  society,  and 
mingle  here  as  members  of  one  household  and  one 
brothci'hood. 

But  it  is  not  with  man  alone  that  wo  hold  converse 
here,  but  with  nature  in  her  grandest  aspect.  If  ever 
there  is  a  moment  of  deep  thought,  of  grand  and  sub- 
lime emotion,  it  is  when  we  stand  by  tlie  ocean  side 
and  gaze  upon  its  ceaseless  roll  of  Avuters.  The  sea  is 
full  of  subjects  for  thought  and  feeling.  AVho  can 
meditate,  unmoved,  on  the  treasures  which  liont  upon 
its  bosom,  or  arc  entombed  within  its  depths  r  Think 
of  the  ocean  sprites,  which  romance  and  mythology 
have  ctdlcd  \ip  from  "  the  deep,  deep  sea,"  or  which 


HAMPTON    BEACH. 


251 


I 

i 
I 

have  walked  in  beauty  on  the  "  breast  of  the  billow."  \ 
Tliiiik  of  the  sailor-boy,  away  from  the  home  of  his  ] 
youth  and  the  ♦'  friends  that  to  hun  were  so  dear," 
going  down  to  his  silent  but  pearl-decked  grave  to 
sleep  beneath  a  coral  monument  with  the  "  immortals 
of  the  sea."  Fancy  clothes  his  lone  resting-place  with 
beauty ;  but  there  is  a  sadder  thought  in  the  ck- 
cumstances  of  a  death  at  sea.  The  wild  commotion 
of  nature  all  around  —  the  gentle  hand  —  the  silent 
tear  —  the  quiet  footstep  and  the  voice  of  love  —  these 
are  not  there. 

The  sea  is  full  of  majesty.  How  the  mind  is  sub- 
dued by  it,  as  if  it  were  the  visible  presence  of  the 
Deity  !  In  its  composure,  what  an  emblem  of  the 
beauty  and  purity  of  heaven  !  In  its  uproar  and  agi- 
tation, with  what  magnificent  awe  does  it  fiU  the  soul ! 
—  obeying  neither  King  Canute,  nor  any  other  king, 
save  One.     O  secret  sea  ! 


"  Thou  hast  pearls  of  price  untold 
To  light  thy  airy  cells, 
And  splendid  wrecks  and  mines  of  gold 
'Mid  rainbow-colored  shells." 

J.  O.  Adams. 


'@ 


252  STANZAS. 


STANZAS, 

I  LOVE  the  memory  of  that  hour 

"When  first  in  youth  I  found  thee  ; 
For  infant  beauty  gently  tlirew 

A  morning  freshness  round  thee  ; 
A  single  star  was  rising  there, 

With  mild  and  lovely  motion ; 
And  scarce  the  zephjT's  gentle  breath 

"Went  o'er  the  sleeping  ocean. 

I  love  the  memory  of  that  hour  — 

It  wakes  a  pensive  feclmg, 
As  when  Avithin  the  winding  shell 

The  playful  winds  arc  stealing ; 
It  tells  my  heart  of  those  bright  years, 

Ere  hope  went  down  in  sorrow, 
"When  all  tlie  joys  of  yesterday 

Were  painted  on  to-morrow. 

Where  art  thou  now  r    Thy  once-loved  flowers 

Their  yellow  leaves  aic  twining. 
And  bright  and  beautiful  again 

That  single  star  is  sliining. 


But  where  art  thou  :     The  bended  grass 

A  dewy  stone  discloses, 
And  love's  light  footsteps  print  the  ground 

Where  aU  my  peace  reposes. 

Farewell !    My  tears  were  not  for  thee ; 

'Twcre  weakness  to  deplore  thee, 
Or  vainly  moirrn  tliine  absence  here, 

Wliile  angels  half  adore  thee. 
Thy  days  were  few  and  quickly  told ; 

Thy  short  and  mournful  story 

Hath  ended  like  the  morning  star, 

That  melts  in  deeper  glory. 

0.   IV.  B.  Pcubody. 


THE    COMING    OF    WINTER. 

Hark  ye  !   for  I  come  from  the  cold-streaming  north, 
With  the  blackness  of  tempests  I  hurry  me  forth, 
And  the  sound  of  my  pinions  ye  hear  in  the  sky  — 
Lo  !  where  I  am  coming  !     I  am  nigh  —  I  am  nigh  ! 
My  wing  is  of  fleetness  and  speedeth  in  wrath, 
To  blight  and  destroy  on  its  desolate  path ; 
And  far  as  I  swoop  over  valley  and  hill. 
Old  Earth  in  her  mantle  wags  darkened  and  chill ; 


\  254  THE    COMING    OF    'WIXTER. 

(  And  they  of  the  forest  and  they  of  the  plain, 

I  Lie  crimsoned  and  scattered  like  warriors  slain  ; 

?  Their  host  it  hath  perished  on  mountain  and  lea, 

^  As  sleets  of  the  winter  that  fall  in  the  sea. 

\  O  Autumn  !  how  dreary  and  dark  is  thy  shrine  ! 

i  For  the  breath  of  my  nostril  hath  blighted  thy  vine ; 

i  Thy  garland  is  faded,  thy  proud  reign  is  passed, 

(  And  thou  must  lie  down  -with  thy  sister  at  last ! 

\  But,  maiden,  I'll  work  thee  a  burial  shroud, 

I  All  dark  as  the  teuipcst  and  broad  as  the  cloud  ; 

i  And  far  as  I  sweep  on  the  desolate  lea 

^  I'll  waken  a  dirge  o'er  thy  sisters  and  thee, 

J  And  thou  shalt  repose,  like  a  death-smitten  bride, 

^  AU  reft  of  her  glory,  her  passion,  and  pride. 

i  My  trump  on  the  mountains  !  my  trump  has  been  heard, 

}  And  the  deep,  dim  forests  its  ccliocs  liave  stu-red, 

'  And  the  billow  that  roared  to  the  land  from  the  main 

5  I've  chained  to  its  rock  with  an  adamant  chain  ; 

(  And  the  far-soxinding  breaker,  so  fearful  and  wild, 

5  I'll  tame  for  the  sport  of  the  mariner's  cliild. 

I  O,  heiu-d  yc  the  cry  of  the  poor  and  the  lone, 

I  As  their  tliin  checks  bled  to  my  fingers  of  stone  ? 

}  'Tis  abroad  !  'tis  abroad  ;  and  the  legend  of  fear 

i  StUl  floats  like  a  cui-se  to  the  reveller's  car. 

\  As  I  rode  in  the  storm  on  the  bitter  cold  aii", 

I  I  heard  through  the  darkness  a  cry  of  despair  ; 


'>m 


S                                            TUE    COMING    OF    WINTER.                              2-55  J 

i                                                                                                                                 — —  I 

]     It  swept  on  the  blast  from  a  hut  on  the  moor  I 

',     To  the  rich  man's  dwelling,  and  knocked  at  his  door.  '^ 

He  heard  not  the  call,  for  the  viols  were  loud,  J 

\     And  the  heat  of  the  dancers  was  rapid  and  proud  ;  \ 

I     He  heard  not  the  cry  that  was  uttered  in  vain,  ) 

I     And  bade  them  strUie  up  with  a  merrier  strain.  i 

I     The  feast  it  was  spread  on  the  sumptuous  board,  i 

j     And  the  song  it  was  sung,  and  the  wine  it  was  poured,  ' 

Nor  dreamt  they  the  vrail  through  the  casement  that  \ 

i 

passed  | 

AVas  aught  but  the  shriek  of  the  wandering  blast.  J 

{ 

But  when  the  far  mountains  tlic  red  morn  had  dyed,  '? 

And  the  rich  man  came  do-\\ai  from  his  mansion  of  J 


pride,  / 

His  heavy  eye  fell  on  a  golden-haired  child  I 

That  sat  on  his  threshold  that  bleak  moni,  and  smiled  !  | 

He  called  to  it  kindly  —  it  spoke  not  a  word,  J 

And  he  shook  like  a  leaf  by  the  autumn  wmd  stirred  ;  | 

For  her  blue  eye  looked  with  a  passionate  stare,  ; 

And  the  Avhitc  snow  was  wreathed  -with  her  beautiful  ] 

hah.                                                                              .  I 

One  little  hand  held  the  rude  cloak  to  her  form,  .' 

^\^lile  the  other  was  raised  in  rebuke  to  the  storm.  ' 

She  heaved  not  a  sigh,  and  she  breathed  not  a  moan  ;  > 

Her  bosom  was  marble  —  her  heart  it  was  stone  1  J 

The  suffering  smile  on  her  fair  cheek  that  lay  ; 

Had  parted  her  lips  in  its  innocent  play,  ; 


2-56  IMMORTALITY. 

For  her  pure  spirit  passed  from  tliat  threshold  of  sin, 
While  her  meek  car  was  turned  to  the  viols  within ! 

Lo  !  my  brood,  -where  it  sweeps  fi-om  the  far  frozen  pole  ! 

Up  !  haste  ye  away  to  the  famishing  soul ! 
s     Wait  ye  by  the  gates  of  the  poor  and  forlorn, 
>     "SMicre  the  young  mother  weeps  o'er  her  earliest  born ; 
I     Av,  wait  and  be  blessed,  till  ye  pass  to  that  shore 
1     Where  the  cry  of  the  orphan  is  lifted  no  more  ; 
\     Wlierc  a  princely  reward  to  the  righteous  is  sux-e, 
I     And  the  Fatheii  of  mercies  remembers  tlie  jioor. 

J.  Q.  A.  fVovd. 


IMMORTALITY. 


We  foUow  a  beloved  one  to  the  grave.  The  voice, 
to  whose  words  of  wisdom  or  to  whose  innocent  prat- 
tle we  have  often  listened,  is  silenced ;  the  eyes  that  | 
beamed  upon  us  in  love,  aie  closed  ;  and  the  Umbs  of 
I  beauty  or  strength  are  stiff  and  niotionlcss.  We  pay 
the  last  tribute  of  respect,  deposit  the  lifeless  clay,  and 
return  to  our  desolate  home.  How  naturally  does  the 
question  arise,  Shall  wo  ever  behold  that  one  again  ? 
Is  there  future  being  to  man  ? 

Question  philosophy,  which  has  ever  claimed    to  be 


'1 


IMMORTALITT.  257 

man's  guide,  and  what  is  the  reply  r  Tm-n  -we  to  her 
oldest  instructors,  who  lived  in  the  dayspring  of  the 
■world  —  the  -vvise  men  of  the  East.  They  recognized, 
indeed,  the  doctrine  of  the  soul's  immortality,  biit  it 
was  only  as  a  part  of  the  great  soul  of  the  universe, 
issuing  from  it  at  man's  birth,  and  reabsorbed  into  it 
at  his  death.  Consult  the  Grecian  sages.  Many  of  them 
wholly  denied  the  soul's  future  existence.  Those  who 
did  not  alternated  between  hope  and  fear,  speaking  at 
one  time  as  from  the  skies,  and  at  another  uttering  the 
language  of  the  sepulchre.  Some  few  maintained  that 
the  soul  would  for  a  while  possess  an  individual  being 
after  death,  now  sleeping  in  the  chambers  of  the  de- 
parted, and  now  going  forth  to  dwell  in  the  bodj'  of  a 
man  or  of  a  brute.  But  even  these  believed  in  ulti- 
mate absorption.  Nor  was  Roman  philosophy  less  con- 
jectural and  uncertain.  Cicero,  its  brightest  ornament, 
I     who  reasoned  well  and  cogently  upon  the  subject,  after 


^ 


^  stating  the  many  and  conflicting  opinions  which  had 
<  been  held,  thus  remarks  :  "  Which  of  them  is  true, 
>  God  only  knows,  and  which  is  most  probable,  is  a  very 
great  question."  Alas  !  heathen  philosophers,  and  all 
mere  human  philosophers,  are  here  distressed  with 
painful  and  perplexing  doubt.  However  eagerly  and 
laboriously  they  may  have  sought  to  learn  man's  fate, 
as  he  drops  into  the  grave,  vain  and  fruitless  have  been 
their  efforts. 

Interrogate  reason.     She  teaches  that  the  soul  is  dis- 


22  * 


il- 


m 

258  IMMORTALITY. 

tinct  from  the  mutter  of  ^vluch  the  bodj-  is  composed  ; 
that,  uiililve  matter,  which,  however  it  is  changed,  and 
into  whatever  forms  of  beauty  it  is  cast,  remains  inert 
and  senseless,  it  can  think,  and  that  its  thoughts  move 
more  raiiidly  than  the  speed  of  light.  Intimate  as  is 
its  connection  with  the  body,  yet  is  not  the  latter  neces- 
sary to  its  action,  to  its  enjoyment,  or  to  its  suffering  i 
The  powers  of  the  one  are  sometimes  just  sinking  into 
decay,  when  the  faculties  of  the  other  are  displaj-ing 
their  utmost  vigor.  She  asks,  then,  and  asks  with 
great  pertinency,  Why  should  death,  which  is  but  the 
dissolution  of  flesh  and  sinews  and  bones,  be  the  de- 
struction of  the  living  agent  r  Xay,  she  goes  farther. 
All  created  beings  that  we  know,  from  the  smallest  in- 
sect upwards  through  all  grades,  reach  tlie  highest 
improvement  of  which  they  arc  capable.  But  man 
does  not,  if  he  lives  not  agi'.in.  May  Ave  believe  that 
God  thus  deals  with  his  noblest  workmanship  r  Has  a 
Being  of  infinite  wisdom  bestowed  such  lofty  mental 
endowments  and  vast  capacities,  as  characterize  man, 
upon  the  creature  of  a  day  ? 

Inquire  of  nature.  Her  xiniversal  voice  speaks  forth 
in  the  instinctive  horror  with  which  all,  even  the  hum- 
blest and  the  most  debased,  recoil  from  the  thought  of 
annihilation,  in  the  ardent  longing  for  perpetuity  of 
being,  and  the  strong  presentiment  of  it  whicli  thoy 
feel.  Man's  immortality  luis  always  been  the  common 
belief  of  the  mass.     It  has  sprung,  perhaps,  fiom  the 


IMMORTALITY.  259 

obvious  necessity  of  a  future  rigliteous  retribution,  in- 
asmuch as  none  such  takes  place  upon  the  eai'th. 
Hence  it  has  ever  been  connected  -with  an  impression 
that  the  good  and  the  bad  would  dwell  in  different 
abodes.  Poets  have  used  this  common  belief  to  -weave 
the  Avildest  jiictm-es,  and  philosophers  have  made  it  the 
foundation  for  the  most  absurd  and  dreamy  specula- 
tions. Still  it  has  existed  in  the  minds  of  men,  and  no 
force  of  argument,  no  subtile  sophistry,  has  been  able 
to  eradicate  it. 

Listen  to  revelation.  Even  its  ancient  teachings  hint, 
not  very  obscurely,  at  the  great  truth,  and  many  glim- 
merings of  it  appear  in  its  historic  and  prophetical  w^rit- 
ings.  The  light  which  they  shed  upon  it,  indeed,  was 
dim  and  flickering  ;  yet  was  it  brightness  itself,  when 
compared  vdib.  the  gloom  of  Pagan  teaching. 

The  immortality  of  the  soul  is  clearly  mirrored  in  the 
mission  of  Christ.  It  were  surely  absurd  to  suppose 
that  such  events  as  his  coming  into  our  world,  so 
heralded  as  it  was  by  angel  bands,  so  A^ondrous  in  all 
its  aspects,  and  his  death,  which  robed  the  heavens 
in  mourning  and  made  all  nature  groan,  would  have 
transpired  to  save  the  soul,  if  its  being  yyexQ  limited  to 
time's  short  space  and  circumscribed  by  the  narrow 
bounds  of  earth.  The  hosanna  of  praise  that  was 
heard  upon  the  plains  of  Bethlehem,  the  homage  that 
was  paid  to  the  infant  Redeemer  by  the  Jewish  world 
in  the  persons  of  the  shepherds,  and  by  the  Gentile     5 


260  IMMOIITALITY. 

■world  in  that  of  the  wise  men  ;  the  voice  of  Jehovah 
proclaiming  his  sonship  at  the  baptismal  waters  of  Jor- 
dan, and  upon  the  mount  of  transfiguration  ;  nay, 
every  drop  that  he  sweat  in  the  garden,  and  every 
groan  which  he  uttered  upon  the  cross,  then,  louiUy 
declare  man's  imraortalitj'  to  man. 

It  stands  forth,  prominently,  in  his  teachings  and  in 
those  of  his  disciples.  Hear  him,  as  he  unanswerably 
replies  to  the  materialists  of  his  day ;  "  As  touching 
the  dead,  that  they  rise,  have  ye  not  read  in  the  book 
of  Moses,  how  in  tlie  bush  God  spake  unto  liim,  say- 
ing, I  am  the  God  of  Abraham,  the  God  of  Isaac,  and 
the  God  of  Jacob  ?  God  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead, 
but  the  God  of  the  living."  Hear  him,  as  lie  encoxir- 
ages  his  disciples  in  the  prospect  of  predicted  persecu- 
tion by  the  words,  " Fear  not  those  \\ho  kill  the  body, 
but  aie  not  able  to  kill  the  soul."  Kill  the  soul !  The 
suicide  may  put  an  end  to  his  eartlily  existence,  the 
murderer  may  cause  life's  pulse  to  cease  its  beating, 
j  and  fanaticism  may  do  what  it  Avill  to  tlie  body ;  but 
the  soul  no  human  power  can  touch. 

No  less  explicit  is  the  language  of  his  disciples,  A 
primary  article  in  their  creed  —  one  wliich  nerved  them 
to  endiue  aflliction,  to  face  persecution,  to  die  upon 
the  sci-.fi'old  or  at  the  stake  —  was  this :  •'  Absent 
from  the  body  and  luescnt  with  tlic  Lord."  Thoy  were 
assured,  and  tlicy  have  assured  us,  that  death  has  no 
power  over  the  soul.     Nay,  in  tlioir  view,  to  the  Chrin- 


IMMORTALITY.  2G1 

tian,  it  is  the  friendly  hand  Avhich  opens  its  prison- door, 

and  permits  it  to  soar  to  its  native  sky  —  the  removal 

;     of  the  barrier  which  keeps  it  Ixom  its  higliest  honor,  its  ;■ 

>  truest,  piu-est  bliss.  5 
<  Who  were  they  -whom  John  saw,  when  before  him  i 
;  appeared  in  vision  at  Patmos  a  great  mnltitude  which  s 
J  no  man  could  number,  of  all  nations  and  kindreds,  and  > 
)  peoples  and  tongues,  standing  before  the  throne  of  the  I 
/  Lamb,  clad  in  robes  of  white,  and  bearing  palms  in  I 
'  their  hands  r  "Were  they  not  the  hosts  of  the  re-  '. 
'/  deemed,  who,  "come  out  of  great  tribulation,"  now  I 
J  live  in  bliss  ?  Whom  did  he  see  beneath  the  altar  ?  ( 
J  Were  they  not  the  souls  of  those  who  were  slain  upon  I 
I  earth  for  the  word  of  God  and  the  testimony  which  I 
(  they  bore  —  Christ's  martyred  ones,  who  now  dwell  I 
I    where  bigotrj'  cannot  reach  them,  where  persecution  > 

>  and  suffering  have  forever  ceased  ?  < 

I        We  are  not,  then,  left  to  spoil  out  the  soul's  immor-  \ 

>  ' 

I    tality  by  the  light  of  nature,  nor  are  we  called  to  fol-  < 

^    low  the  dubious  fancies  and  the  conjectural  uncertain-  > 

ties   of  philosophy.     It   is    attested  by    a  voice    from  < 

heaven,  it  is  affirmed  by  Him  whose  word  is  eternal 

truth. 

T.  0.  Lincoln. 


.....|5l 


262  THE  volunteek's  farewell. 


THE    VOLUNTEER'S    FAREWELL.  >> 

One  cheer  for  our  fatherland,  ere  we  depart,  ^ 

As  the    Switzcr's    o■^^T^    mountain-home    dear   to   the  I 

heart !  > 

One  sigh  for  the  sad  ones  —  the  loved  ones  —  -vvc  leave ;  > 

Then,  brothers,  awav,  for  'tis  foUv  to  grieve.  | 

I 
We  ai-c  leaving  the  laud  of  the  mountain  and  pine, 

We  are  bound  for  the  land  of  the  orange  and  vine, 

Where  the  blossom  perpetual  enamels  the  sod, 

And  the  incense  of  nature  breathes  ever  to  God. 

But,  alas  !  'tis  the  land  of  the  despot  and  slave. 
Awaiting  the  aid  of  the  free  and  the  brave  ;  > 

Though  grandeur   and   beauty   clothe  mountains  and 

plains. 
There  liberty  languishes  —  anarchy  reigns. 

Then  onward  !  the  laurels  that  others  have  won 
Arc  blooming  for  us  in  the  clime  of  the  sun  ! 
The  arm  tliat's  invincible  still  wields  tlie  blade, 
And  he  that  "  sinrciKlcrs  not  "  calls  for  our  aid. 

On,  brothers  —  our  vows  were  plighted  to-day 
To  glory  —  tlie  mistress  who  calls  us  away. 


OUR  FACTORY   GIRLS.  263 

To  the  bridal  we  hasten  ;  where  fiercest  the  fight 
The  war-god  is  waiting  to  witness  the  rite  ! 

s  Our  couch  we  may  press  'mid  the  rush  of  the  storm, 

;  And  the  battle's  blue  smoke  may  our  bridal-wreath 

\  form ; 

\  But  the  soldier's  remembrance  is  hallowed  and  dear, 

<     Though  the  laurel  may  deck  —  not  the  brow  —  but  the 
i 

bier. 

Mrs.  S.  R.  A.  Barnes. 


OUR    FACTORY    GIRLS. 

It  has  been  the  business  of  an  honorable  senator  in 
congress  to  institute  comparisons  between  the  factory 
operatives  of  the  north  and  the  black  slavery  of  the 
south  —  to  allude  to  a  class  of  "  day  laborers,"  as 
being  subjected  to  a  "  horrid  tyranny,  compared  with 
which  the  southern  slave  is  happj'  indeed,"  seven 
tenths  of  whom  are  females  —  New  England  females  — 
educated  from  early  childhood  in  the  school  of  liberty  ; 
and,  having  learned  the  lessons  and  imbibed  all  the 
principles  of  a  just  equality,  they  acknowledge  no  man 
as  a  master.  Possessing  all  the  elements  of  a  laudable 
independence,  they  scorn  the  tp-ant,  and  despise  slavery 
in  all  its  horrid  and  complicated  forms,  as  being  the 


204  OUR    FACrOKY    GIllLS. 

<'upas  of  the  moral  -vvorld,  under  -svhose  pestiferous 
shade  all  intellect  languishes,  and  all  virtue  dies." 
The  senator,  however,  would  allude  to  our  northern 
laborers  in  a  spii-it  of  commiseration.  For  tlus  we 
thank  him.  Such  a  sjonpathy  is  most  kind ;  but,  in 
truth,  we  must  say,  that  we  require  neither  his  sj-m- 
pathy  nor  his  influence  in  alleviating  our  condition. 
AVe  are  the  arbiters  of  our  o\<ra  fortunes.  Our  time  is 
our  own,  our  earnings  arc  our  own ;  and  yvc  are  happy 
and  contented  in  tlie  sphere  in  which  an  all-wise 
Providence  has  called  us  to  act. 

Yes,  we  thank  liim  for  such  expressions  of  sj-mpa- 
thy ;  but  we  would  rather  that  his  commiseration 
should  be  lavished  on  those  degraded  beings  who 
make  up  a  part  of  his  constituency,  and  who  arc  now 
groaning  under  tlie  lash  of  cruel  and  relentless  task- 
masters. If  his  commiseration  has  resulted  in  teai-s, 
let  them  flow  in  a  channel,  broad  and  deep,  at  the  base 
of  the  altar  of  slavery,  until  they  shall  form  a  mighty 
flood  that  shall  undermine  the  disgraceful  fabric 
reared  in  blood  and  tears,  and  baptized  witli  the  immo- 
lation of  human  victims.  Were  we  the  wretches  his 
deluded  fancy  has  painted,  we  might  deserve  his 
sympathy,  liut  if,  in  point  of  talent,  education,  moral 
virtue,  integrity  of  purpose,  rcfinenicnt  of  sentiment 
—  if,  in  all  that  constitutes  the  sum  total  of  female 
accomplishments,  to  say  nollung  of  personal  attrac- 
tions, tlio  female  operatives  of  New  England  will  not 


-;hi 


OUR    FACTOKY    GIRLS.  265 


bear  a  comparison  with  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the 

south,   then  most   assm-edly  we   have  never  been   so 

fortunate  as  to  behold  a  specimen  of  their  first  quality, 

yet  we  have  seen   southern  ladies,  whose  pretensions     <. 

would  lead  us  to  believe  that  they  were  richly  entitled     ] 

to  aU  the  claims  of  superiority.  \ 

I  speak  from  acquaintance.     Many   of  our   female     $ 

operatives  are  self-taught.     Hundreds  go  out  from  our     '. 

manufacturing  vUlages  yearly  to  the  south  and  west,     / 

as  teachers,  and  are  encouraged  so  to  do  by  Christians     j 

and  philanthropists,  as  bemg  preeminent,  not  for  their     > 

beauty  alone  —  for  this  dwells  only  in  the  lustre  of  a 

weU-c\iltivated  mind  —  but  for  their  moral,  religious, 

and   scientific   attainments ;    and,   judging   from  long 

experience,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  in  point 

of  health,  general  intelligence,  and  all  that  pertains  to 

the  moral  and  social  vu-tues,  as  a  class,  they  will  not 

suffer  in   comparison  with  any  others  on  the  globe. 

That  I  may  be  sustained  in  my  assertion,  you  have 

only  to   visit  our  mills.     Go  into  any  or   aU  of  the     \ 

different  departments  of  labor,  and  you  will  not  only 

be  greeted  with  bright  eyes  and  smiling  faces,  but  you 

will  observe  that  neatness,  order,    and  the  utmost  cir-     't 

i 
cumspection  prevail ;  and,   my  word  for  it,  your  ears     \ 

will  not  be  pained  with  words  of  crimination,  or  with    < 

boisterous  faultfinding  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  w-Ul  be     \ 

< 

found  the  utmost  courtesy  and  mutual  good  feelings,     < 
and  a  scrupulous  regard  for  each  other's  interests.  ^ 

'"^  23 


266  OUR    FACTORY    GIRLS.  I 

Should  you  visit  us,  you  ■wUl  find  us  busily  engaged 
in  our  usual  avocations.  Nor  do  wc  Avish  to  disguise 
the  fact  that  we  are  the  "  sons  and  daughters  of  toU." 
We  have  been  educated  from  our  infancy  in  the  habits 
of  industry,  and  we  have  learned  to  discover  in  labor 
J  — free  labor  —  a  dignity,  which,  in  our  view,  makes 
^  even  toil  itself  an  intmisic  virtue.  Literally  it  may  be 
said  of  us,  that  we  "  eat  our  bread  by  the  sweat  of  the 
brow."  But,  "  we  do  not  live  on  bread  alone."  There 
are  various  sources  from  which  wc  can  derive  nutri- 
ment for  the  mind  as  well  as  the  body.  "NVe  attend 
religious  worship.  Most  of  us  are  teachers  or  scholars 
in  the  Sabbath  school.  AVe  have  also  access  to  exten- 
sive libraries,  and  frequently  attend  popular  lectures 
before  the  lyceum.  Besides,  we  take  "  tlie  papers," 
even  write  for  them  occasionally,  read  poUtical  speeches, 
and  censure  and  applaud  as  wc  please  the  efforts  of  our 
public  servants  in  congress,  as  their  political  principles 
do  or  do  not  comport  with  oiu"  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong ;  and,  when  stigmatized  as  slaves,  we  take  an 
honest  pride  in  hurling  back  the  foul  aspersion  into  the 
very  face  and  eyes  of  him  who  dares  to  utter  it.  And 
here  let  me  admonish  the  senator,  tliat  he  has  under- 
taken  an  herculean  task,  if  he  think'<  to  fasten  upon  •> 
the  Yankee  girls  of  New  England  the  opprobrious  ( 
epithet  of  "  slaves,"  by  any  comparison  wliioh  he  can  ] 
conjure  up,  or  dream  of  in  liis  philosojihy.  I 

A'tiHcy  I'.  IleaUy.         \ 


THE    OLD    GRANITE    STATE.  267 


THE    OLD    GRANITE    STATE. 

"When  our  old  state  was  new, 

Now  some  two  hundred  years, 
The  people  were  but  few, 

As  by  story  plain  appears  ; 
But  the  folks  were  real  gritty, 

As  all  our  records  show. 
Though  they'd  neither  town  nor  city, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Their  rocks  were  truest  granite, 

Thcu-  hills  of  mountain  size. 
The  soil,  none  nobler  man  it 

Beneath  more  genial  skies. 
The  red  man  soon  knocked  under, 

And  tlic  knocking  wasn't  slow ; 
It  was  real  Yankee  thunder, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

The  moose  browsed  o'er  the  mountain. 
The  Avolf  prowled  through  the  dell, 

The  wild  deer  sought  the  fovmtain. 
And  the  bear  his  Avintry  cell ; 


iK]-- 


268 


TUE    OLD    GRANITE    STATE. 


The  salmon  leaped  the  -waterfall, 
And,  ^\-ith  shad,  were  "  all  the  go  "  • 

So  plenty,  that  they'd  come  at  call, 
Tavo  hundred  years  ago. 

The  times  hare  strangely  altered, 

Since  our  history  began, 
But  Old  Time  has  never  faltered 

In  reproducing  man. 
And  the  product  has  been  glorious, 

As  every  age  -will  show, 
Though  things  were  less  uproarious. 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

We'd  true  New  England  mothers, 

To  give  us  a  fair  start, 
"Who'd  compare  with  any  others 

In  the  skill  to  make  us  smart, 
"With  our  fathers  we'll  not  {quarrel  — 

As  to  pa,  we're  not  below  ; 
Though  the  birch  usurped  the  laurel, 

Two  liundred  yeai-s  ago. 


When  our  old  state  was  new, 
0\ir  Uainiiii;  was  but  small, 

Witli  the  masters  very  few. 
And  scarce  mistresses  nt  all. 


'B 


A    SKETCH.  269 

"  Young  ideas  "  were  taught  "  to  shoot  " 

But  at  Indians,  bears,  and  so, 

"With  little  foretaste  of  such  fruit. 

Two  hmidred  years  a^o. 

Oeorso  Kent. 


A    SKETCH. 


Almost  every  body  in  this  state  knows  General  Wil- 
son by  the  famUiar  but  not  very  elegant  cognomen, 
"  Long  Jim."  Still,  there  is  more  meaning,  appropri- 
ateness, in  it  than  a  fastidious  ear  might  be  aware  of. 
"Long "he  certainly  is  —  though  not  an  Anak,  nor 
stretched  to  the  immeasurable  length  of  •'  Long  John 
of  Chicago."  And,  to  his  credit  be  it  said,  he  is  one 
of  those  unsophisticated  and  unstarched  men  who 
may  be  Jimmed  without  offending  their  delicacy  or 
detracting  from  then*  dignity.  There  are  some  such 
men  who  boast  no  royal  pride,  but  pass  along,  in  re- 
publican simplicity,  claiming  the  humblest  citizen  as  a 
brother,  and  saying  to  the  highest,  as  Black  Hawk 
did  to  the  president,  "  I  am  a  man,  and  you  are  anoth- 
er." "  Don't  thee  and  tJiou  us,"  said  the  pompous 
justices  of  England  to  the  plam,  blunt  Quaker,  Fox. 
"  Use  such  familiarities  to   ovir  servants,  but   not  to 


> 


23  * 


> 


270  A   SKETCH. 


magistrates,"  said  they.  And  a  good  deal  of  that  royal 
stifFciiing  has  crept  down  into  the  veins  of  these  dem- 
ocratic times.  The  Quakers  used  to  take  Washixgtox 
by  the  hand,  while  president  of  the  United  States,  and 
address  hun,  as  Penn  had  the  king  before,  simply  as 
<'  George."  The  great  man  seemed  rather  pleased  with 
I  a  greeting  which  bespoke  the  fi-atemizing  affection  of 
}     home,  and  often  reciprocated  it  A\-itli  the  like  simplicity 

iof  a  brother.  Some  little  sprig"  of  aristocracy,  better 
furnished  with  broadcloth  than  brains,  Avould  have  re- 
l  sentcd  a  familiaritv  that  made  him  but  "common 
?     clay." 

>  But  not  to  dwell  on  these  things,  it  must  be  admit- 
i  ted  that  General  Wilson  is  distinguished,  in  an  cmi- 
/  nent  degree,  for  simple,  xmostcntatious  habits  in  lus 
<  intercourse,  and  unvarying  courtesy  of  demeanor.  He 
probably  feels  that  he  is  a  man,  and  not  an  ape.  Not 
a  mere  buckram  fop  or  dandy  —  one  of  those  precious 
tilings,  so  numerous  in  sunny  weather,  that 

"  Present  a  body  wliirli,  at  most. 
Is  less  suljstantial  tlian  a  ghost." 

Had  Robert  Burns  been  an  orator  instead  of  a  poet, 
I  there  would  have  been  a  very  striking  resemblance  be- 
^  twoen  him  and  General  "Wilson.  And  there  is  reason 
\  for  this ;  for  the  latter  is  of  Scottish  descent,  and  his 
veins  are  full  of  Scotch  feeling  and  fire,  tempered  with 
that  earnest,  Ii-ish  enthusiasm,  wliich  lie  derives  from 


A  SKETCH.  271 

one  branch  of  his  ancestral  line.  Those  who  knoAv 
any  thing  of  the  noble-heai-ted,  strong--s^■illcd  poet, 
•will  see  very  strong  points  of  resemblance  between 
them.     The  same  •vvild  scenes  of  natiu-e,  the  same 

"  Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 
Of  d  irk  brown  heath  and  shaggj-  wood," 

first  opened  alike  to  their  youthful  eyes.  Bums,  in  his 
boyhood,  followed  the  plough,  and  pressed  his  wild,  free 
I  feet  to  the  old  Caledonian  hiEs  ;  wlule  the  American 
^  boy  bent  to  the  same  rustic  empiojTaent,  and  learned 
)  freedom  Uke  bim  in  our  beloved  Scotland.  The  same 
^  free,  generous,  and  impetuous  spirit  that  swelled  in  the 
s  bosom  of  one,  now  characterizes  the  other.  Alike  in 
disdaining  the  pompous  foUy  of  lordly  life  and  the 
"  rattling  equipage  "  of  wealth  and  fasliion,  the  same 
glorious  spirit  of  independence  that  Burns  worshipped, 
as  "lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye,"  is  equally 
the,  idol  of  the  New  Hampshu-e  orator.  If  the  music 
of  the  one  feU  like  a  transcendent  charm  upon  the 
Scottish  ear,  no  less  potent,  in  a  dijfferent  capacity,  is 
the  voice  of  the  other  to  stir  the  pulse  or  win  the  heart. 
The  same  martial  fire,  the  same  restless  and  indignant 
hatred  of  tyranny,  that  burned  in  the  Scotchman's 
veins,  now  runs  in  the  American's. 

Compare  them  physically,  and  the  same  resemblance 
is  apparent ;  —  ^^ith  an  exception,  however,  for  the  eye 
of  Bums  was  the  most  distinctive  feature  of  his  face. 


272  A  SKETCH. 

Poetry  lingered  in  its  radiance  ;  and  -when  the  bard  felt 
the  struggling  of  that  mighty  nature  within  him,  his 
eye  is  said  to  have  burned  and  kindled  -with  an  "  al- 
most insufferable  light."  In  General  Wilson,  the  same 
feature  is  often  lighted  up  vdth  terrible  power.  To  a 
stranger,  General  Wilson  would  not  appear  the  lion  he 
actually  is  when  aroused  and  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his 
impassioned  strains  of  eloquence  —  as  Lamb  has  said 
of  books  —  that  is  eloquence.  He  wo\ild  then  be 
taken  for  some  hard-faced  ploughman,  ungifted  \\-ith 
that  •'  mighty  magic  "  which  puts  a  tongue  iu  every 
thing  and  leads  an  assembly  captive.  I  have  attended 
public  meetings  when  he  was  to  address  the  people,  and 
noted  the  curious  inquiries  and  sage  remarks  of  those 
who  had  never  before  seen  him,  and  knew  nothing  of 
his  powers  as  a  speaker.  Plainly  attired,  and  in  the 
most  unstudied  manner,  he  would  enter  the  house  and 
sit  in  modest  carelessness  awaiting  the  gathering  of  his 
audience.  No  stranger  eye  would  be  fixed  on  him  as 
the  hero  of  the  scene.  "  \Mierc  is  lie  ■  "  would  be  the 
inquirv.  "  There  he  is  —  that  coarse-looking  man, 
bending  forward,  witli  the  aspect  of  a  long  '  Vermont 
Jonathan,'  "  would  be  the  reply.  "  T/iat  General  Wil- 
son ?  —  why,  ho  don't  look  as  though  he  could  say  any 
tiling.  See  tlicre  !  I  guess  your  phrenology  is  all 
knocked  in  the  head  now.  lie  looks  like  an  old 
plough-jogger."  Such  would  be  the  comments.  Hut 
he  speaks  —  at  fu-st  with  that  simplicity  and  courteous 


) 
V  A   SKETCH.  273       ^ 

i 


phraseology  that  distinguishes  the  gallant  man  always,  j 

He  stretches  himself  up  —  raises  liis  stentorian  voice  as  5 

he  -warms  with  his  subject  —  period  upon  period  goes  I 

rolling  out  upon  the  audience,   and  echoing  back  and  \ 

up  like  the  ocean  tones  of  the  sea.     The  orator  seems  j 

laboring  and  dashing  forward  like  one  of  those  "  oak  i 

leviathans  "  of  the  deep,  crushing  the  haughty  waves  ; 

beneath  its   keel,  and   wrestling   onward   against  tlie  > 

tempest.     It  is  then  vou  begin  to  realize  the  awaken-  ; 

ing  of  that  "  dormant  thunder "  which  you  so  little  i 

di'eamed  was  sleeping  in  that  awkward  form  and  un-  > 

promising  aspect.     You  are  borne  onward  by  the  im-  I 

petuous  current,  or  stirred  by  some  startling  picture  of  | 

political  folly  or  aggravated  wrong,  until  it  would  seem  | 

as  though  the  old  dead  had  been  summoned  back  to  I 

rebuke  the  Uviug.  > 

But  in  all  tliis  there  is  no  ungenerous  taunt  —  no  > 

> 

flippant  blackguardism  —  no  impeachment  of  liis  oppo-  > 

nent's  motives  or  abilities,   but  an  exhibition  of  the  > 

> 

loftier  and  better  feelings.      In  tliis   respect  General  \ 

AVUson  occupies  a  more  elevated  position  than  most  of  ,' 

the  political  orators  of  the  day.     He  scorns  the  tricks  '' 

and  slang  of  the  demagogue.     He  never  descends  to  > 

them.     His  language  is  chosen  with  even  the  nice  taste  | 

of  the  scholar ;  and  while  his  periods  oftentimes  ex-  ', 

hibit  a  peculiar  beauty  and  finish,  they  arc  fuU  of  encr-  \ 

gy  and  charmed  -with  fire  —  "as  lightning  lurks  in  the  | 

drops  of  the  summer  clouds."     He  never  caters  to  that  •> 


274  STANZAS. 

vulgar  appetite  Avliich  riots  in  abusive  cijithct  and  un- 
manly detraction.  Nor  does  he  ever  stoop  to  repel  the 
base  attack  and  calumny  so  rife  in  partizan  wai-fare. 
But  he  stands  up  lilce  the  storm-defying  pillar,  that 
mocks  alike  the  fury  of  the  tempest  and  the  wave,  and 
he  bears  his  head  aloft  into  the  sunslune  and  bids  them 
beat  on. 

Moses  Ji.  Carlland. 


STANZAS. 

Adown  the  track  of  bygone  years, 

From  ■\vlicncc  our  lives  have  sped, 
How  many  fair  and  grand  ideas 

Aniong  its  tombs  are  dead  ; 
Though  once  in  smiling  beauty  born, 

And  nurtured  in  the  mind, 
ITiey'vc  passed  like  clouds  in  dewy  morn. 

And  left  no  trace  behind. 

If  every  errant,  flitting  thought, 
That  sweeps  the  teeming  brain 

In  tiMUjiting  show,  could  all  be  caught 
And  bound  in  memory's  chain, 


^^  ^^^f^\\ 


Ik) 


i  .^., 


ULTRAISM.  275 

O,  what  a  store  of  precious  lore, 

To  hold  in  stern  command  !  — 
More  dear  than  piles  of  golden  ore, 

Or  pearls  from  ocean  strand. 

They  come,  they  go,  those  flitting  forms, 

Wc  loved  so  passing  well ; 
Each  treasured  glance,  each  breathing  tone, 

Has  left  its  magic  spell  — 
Yet,  O,  the  tluronging  memories 

That  live  witliin  the  past !  — 
That  come  in  dreams  too  beautiful  — 

Too  beautiful  to  last. 


ULTRAISM. 

The  great  mass  of  mankind  arc  groping  their  way  m 
the  dark,  not  daring  to  push  forward  thcii-  investiga- 
tions and  researches  with  that  spirit,  promptness,  and  | 
energy  Avhich  truth  demands.  They  skim  along  the 
surface  of  the  great  ocean  of  truth  and  eternal  princi-  i 
pies,  pleased  with  what  a  superficial  effort  brings  to  ^ 
their  knowledge  and  understanding.  This  is  the  con-  | 
dition  of  the  world,  and  the  only  diifercnce  between     ^ 


11- 


276  ULTKAISM. 


the  masses  and  the  ultraists,  as  they  are  called,  is  tliis : 
While  tlie  fonncr  are  satisfied  -with  tlicir  superficial 
kno-vvlcdgc  of  men  and  things,  the  latter  probe  the 
matter  to  the  quick,  and  v;i]l  not  reluiqviish  theu-  la- 
bors until  they  fully  master  the  subject  under  consid- 
eration. The  ultraist  goes  beyond  his  fellows.  He 
soai's  higher,  digs  deeper,  and  extends  Ids  observations 
further  than  the  multitude.  Hence  he  is  called  a  vis- 
ionary, a  A\ild  schemer,  a  fanatic,  an  idtraist.  But  to 
the  true  man  these  are  no  terms  of  reproach.  They  are 
but  -words  of  cheer  and  encouragement,  as  caii  be 
clearly  illustrated  by  a  thousand  facts  drawn  from  the 
ponderous  pages  of  history. 

Men  may  be  ultra  in  science,  polities,  religion,  and 
letters  ;  and  yet,  when  the  world  comes  to  understand 
the  views  and  opinions  which  are  thought  to  malie 
men  ultra  in  their  notions,  it  will  sanction  and  approve 
{  them  all.  Nay,  farther.  The  world  will  adopt  them 
;  and  call  them  all  its  own,  and  wonder  that  it  sliould  so 
I  long  have  been  kept  in  ignorance.  How  many  men  of 
;  science  have  been  denounced  as  being  ultra  in  their 
opinions.  When  Copernicus,  alter  long  and  wearied 
I  hours,  months,  and  years,  broached  the  simple  doc- 
i  trine  that  the  sun  was  tlie  centre  of  the  soliu-  system, 
and  that  tlie  earth  was  a  secondary  body,  revolving 
i  around  it  at  a  great  distance,  and  turning  daily  upon 
j  its  own  axis,  lie  was  persecuted  and  denounced  as  an 
]     ultraist,  and  his  doctrines  were  roprescnicd  as  danger- 


ULTBAISM.  277      ^ 


m- 


ous  to  the  church  and  community.  And  yet  the  Co- 
pernican  system  of  astronomy  is  the  true  one,  and  is 
now  universally  adopted.  The  world,  following  in  the 
footsteps  of  Copernicus,  have  all  become  astronomical 
ultraists.  What  a  comment  on  human  blindness  and 
bigotry  ! 

As  an  example  of  religious  ultraism  that  has  now 
become  popular,  look  at  the  sublime  and  glorious  sys- 
tem of  Christianity,  which  is  rapidly  working  its  way 
to  the  hearts  and  consciences  of  men.  When  its 
Founder  made  his  appearance  on  the  earth,  clothed 
vrith.  the  plain  simphcity  of  the  truth,  and  armed  with 
the  simple  power  of  the  gospel,  he  was  mocked,  per- 
secuted, insulted,  and  slain,  merely  because  he  was  an 
ultraist.  He  looked  at  things  as  they  were,  called 
them  by  their  right  names,  rebuked  the  evils  and  vices 
of  the  age,  and  plainly  declared  to  men  the  true  system 
of  earthly  greatness  and  glory.  How  was  he  received  ? 
Let  history  answer.  His  ultra  doctrines,  as  they  were 
termed  by  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  crowd, 
brought  dowai  upon  his  head  all  the  vengeance  of 
kings,  priests,  and  the  rabble.  With  one  voice  they 
cried  out,  "  Crucify  him  !  crucify  him  !  "  and  accordingly 
he  suffered  all  the  terrible  agonies  of  the  cross,  between 
two  malefactors.  In  a  lilie  manner,  his  ultra  disciples 
suffered  martyrdom  and  death  in  the  most  cruel  and 
horrible  forms.  And  yet  these  ultra  doctrines,  as  they 
were  reproaclifuUy  termed,  have  lived  and  flourished 

24 


J       278  ULTRAISM. 


for  more  than  eighteen  centuries.  And  this  very  day, 
there  are  thousands  and  naillions  who  embrace  these 
doctrines,  in  the  love  of  tinith,  and  who  glory  in  that 
providence  of  God  Avliich  gave  the  world  such  a  sub- 
lime system  of  faith  and  religious  practice.  O,  how 
much  of  good  has  been  done  in  the  world  by  the  holy 
mission  of  Christianity  !  How  many  broken  and  sor- 
rowful hearts  has  it  healed  up  with  its  balmy  truths  ! 
How  many  orphans'  and  ■widows'  tears  has  it  dried 
away !  And  how  much  of  Cliristian  love  and  peace 
has  it  begotten  in  the  heai-ts  of  men  !  The  world  owes 
its  great  moral  Founder  a  debt  of  everlasting  gi-atitude 
for  the  gift  of  Christianity. 

But  there  is  one  more  proof  that  ultraism  is  only 
the  demonstration  of  the  truth  before  the  people  are 
prepared  to  receive  it.  By  a  combination  of  the  most 
singxilar  and  remarkable  circumstances  recorded  in  the 
annals  of  history,  the  continent  of  America  was  dis- 
covered and  settled  liy  Europeans.  For  long  and  weary 
years,  om*  hardy  forefathers  endured  the  toils  and  la- 
bors of  a  new  country,  exposed  to  the  ravages  of  fam- 
ine, disease,  and  a  sleepless  enemy.  They  knew  no 
rest  or  peace,  except  that  peace  of  mind  which  flows 
from  conscious  integrity  and  virtuous  actions.  They 
came  here  to  enjoy  the  freedom  of  religion  and  poli- 
tics. Escaping  from  the  immediate  jurisdiction  and 
oppressions  of  a  cruel  monarchy,  they  soon  began  to 
sec  and  feel  the  necessity  of  social  and  political  reform. 


>  ULTRA.ISM.  279       > 


I 

>    They  began  to  realize  the  beauties  of  human  equality 


and  freedom,  and  ardently  to  desire  a  more  just  and 
^  liberal  government.  A  collision  took  place  betM-cen 
the  colony  and  the  mother  country,  -which  was  pro- 
tracted through  a  seven  years'  war,  and  wliich  termi- 
nated in  the  glorious  victory  of  the  American  forces. 
A  new  government  was  established  uj)on  principles  as 
immutable  as  truth  itself.  The  fundamental  truths  of 
that  constitution  which  is  now  the  admiration  of  the 
Avholc  world,  were  denounced  as  ultra  and  visionary  in 
the  extreme.  And  yet  these  ultra  political  doctrines 
have  stood  for  more  than  fifty  years  as  monuments  of 
human  wsdom.  They  cannot  die.  Our  coimtry  may 
fall  into  the  dust,  and  take  its  place  among  the  dead 
rejiublics  of  the  old  world ;  but  the  ultra  doctrines  of 
the  immortal  Declaration  of  American  Independence 
will  live  as  long  as  the  great  heart  of  humanity  shall 
beat  and  the  sons  of  freedom  shall  cherish  the  love  of 
liberty.  Human  rights  and  human  equality  begin  now 
to  bo  understood,  and  the  doctrines  of  self-government 
arc  so  univorsally  bolievod,  that  no  one  thinks  of  call- 
ing tliem  ultra  in  their  nature  or  tendency.  The  sign- 
ers of  this  Declaration,  once  denounced  as  ultra  politi- 
cal aspu-ants,  are  now  admired  and  loved  as  the  fathers 
of  American  Kborty. 

Away,  then,  with  the  foolish  and  timid  idea,  that  ul- 
traism  is  a  term  of  reproach  and  disgrace.  It  is  not  so. 
The  term  ultraist,  used  in  the  sense  in  which  we  employ 


<, 


280 


THE    DOOMED    RACE. 


<  it,  moans  only  the  man  who  has  seized  hold  of  the 
;  truth,  -wliile  the  multitudes  are  groping  about  in  dark- 
I  ness.     AVc  ILliC  such  ultraism  as  tliis,  and  our  heart  is 

<  rejoiced  that  there  are  ultra  spirits  abroad  in  the  world, 
I  preparing  it  for  the  more  speedy  and  general  diifusion 
\  of  scientific,  political,  and  religious  truth. 

Joscoh  Kiddar. 


THE    DOOMED     RACE. 

Ay,  true  !  yc  have  waned  lilic  the  phantom  hosts 

Of  morn  on  the  misty  lea ; 
Your  arrow's  sharp  hurtle  hath  left  our  coasts, 

The  plash  of  }-our  oars  our  sea  ; 
Where  Metacom  strode  in  liis  chieftain  pride 

The  wig^^•am  is  seen  no  more ; 
And  long,  long  ago  hath  the  council-fire  died 

On  the  Old  Dominion's  shore. 

Your  trail  o'er  tlie  green  AUeghanian  vales 

Is  tlie  track  of  the  evening  dew, 
And  the  war-whoop  that  swells  on  the  praiiic  gales 

Is  the  wail  of  the  faint  and  few. 
Ye  know  ye  are  doomed  —  a  perishing  race, 

I.ikc  the  leaves  of  the  nutunui  blast ; 
Ye  know  that  the  Saxon  is  wailing  your  jdace, 

And  yc  must  belong  to  the  past. 


H^ 


THE    KESTLESS    HEART.  2S1 

The  arm  of  the  red  chief  is  Aveary  of  blood  — 

His  heart  is  forgetting  its  hate ; 
Too  long  hath  he  striven  to  baffle  the  flood 

Of  swift  and  remediless  fate. 
He  bows  to  the  current  he  may  not  stem 

With  a  spirit  aU.  torn  and  crushed  ; 
And  he  will  find  pity  where  men  condemn, 

"When  his  dying  moan  is  hushed. 

Alas  for  ye,  people  of  little  light ! 

Your  prowess  so  stern  and  wild, 
Your  few  simple  virtues  will  pass,  and  night 

Envelop  the  forest  child ; 
And  historj'  alone  in  some  mouldy  arch 

Enshrine  the  lost  Indian  brave  :  — 

O,  sad  is  the  thought  that  mind's  triumph  march 

Must  be  o'er  a  niition's  grave  ! 

Mrs.  Case. 


THE    RESTLESS    HEART. 

The  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  day  had  given  place  to 
comparative  quiet,  for  it  was  midnight  in  the  imperial 
city.  The  Forum  was  deserted,  except  by  a  few  scat- 
tered sleepers,  who  reclined  around  the  statues,  or  in 
the  shadows  of  the  porticos.     The  Jew  had  crouched 


24* 


.^ 


282  THE    KESTLESS    HEART. 

av,-ay  in  liLs  comfortless  abode  —  the  brawling  gladiator 
was  shut  in  his  nightly  prison.  The  husbandman  had 
returned  to  his  vDla  with  the  proceeds  of  his  sales. 
i  There  was  no  hum  of  buyer  or  seller  in  the  bookstalls 
<  of  the  SigUlaria,  no  gay  laughter  from  the  baths,  no 
i  shout  from  the  Campus  Martins,  no  merry  peal  from 
the  public  schools.  Occasionally,  a  figure  glided  silent- 
ly along,  a  chariot  whirled  s^viftly  by,  or  a  reveller, 
reeling  homeward,  sang  fragments  of  Fescennine  songs. 
Here  and  there  the  rays  of  a  lamp  streaming  through 
the  lattice  revealed  a  copj-ist  still  grasping  his  reed,  or 
the  journalist  preparing  the  news-sheet  for  the  morrow, 
and  sometimes,  too,  a  weary  student  came  forth  firom 
the  library  of  liucullus  to  breathe  the  air  of  the  Cir- 
cean  gardens. 

All  Avas  still  in  the  palace  of  Cirsar.  The  banquet 
was  over.  The  mii-thful  echoes  had  died  in  the  stately 
hall,  and  the  jewelled  wine-cups  gleamed  f;dntly 
amidst  the  withered  garlands.  The  guests  liad  de- 
parted —  some  to  tlieir  cell-like  dormitories,  some  to 
the  cool  marble  tloors,  or  the  brim  of  the  soothing 
fountains.  For  that  brief  hoiu-  even  the  slave  was  at 
rest.  Tlie  porter  and  liis  dog  lay  down  together.  The 
captive  Greek,  the  sullen  Sard,  the  dark-hued  Numid- 
ian,  tlie  supple  child  of  the  Asian  coast,  followed 
undisturbed  tlie  changes  of  a  dream,  l)right,  perchance, 
Avilli  tlie  tc'iu])Ie  of  Feronia  and  tlie  cap  of  Ubcrty. 
Closing  a  suite  of  lofty  rooms  was  one  yet  more 


THE    RESTLESS    HEART.  283 

elaborately  finished  and  more  lavislily  adorned.     In  it 
was  no  trace  of  the  early  Komans.     Their  stern  sim- 
plicity had  vanished  before  the  sudden  influx  of  for- 
eign -wealth.     Planned  for  luxurious  ease  and  elegant 
retirement,   it   provided   alike  for  the  softness  of  the 
Oriental  and  the  highest  wants  of  the  scholar.     Upon 
one  side  lay  the  garden,  separated  from  it  by  curtains 
of  briUiant  dyes  looped  up  to  admit  the  wind  freighted 
with  perfume.     It  had  been  wandering  at  will  over  the 
sweet   domain,   where,    grouped   in  glo-\\ing  clusters, 
twining  about  sculptured  pillars,  or  climbing  over  the 
cur-ving  brim  of  urns  and  vases,  grew  flowers  of  every 
tint,    and  vines   with   their  clasping  tendrils.     There 
twinkled  the  glossy  foliage  of  the  ilex  —  there  stood 
the  richly  dyed  arbutus  and  the  graceful  myrtle.   There 
bloomed  the  orange  and  the  lemon,  the  anemone  and 
the  bright  cistus,  the  rose  and  the  violet,  the  aloe,  and 
the  red  gUliflower  of  the  rock.   There  waved  the  palm, 
there  rustled  the  gray  olive  and  the  bee-loved  lime. 
And  all   was  so  fair,  so  fresh,  with  the  sjiray-drops 
forever  falling  from  the  innumerable  jets,  and  the  tran- 
quil moonlight  brightening  as  with  a  thought  of  love 
each  stem  and  leaf,  each  bud  and  blossom.    In  between 
columns  of  transparent  alabaster  came  the  beams  also. 
Silently  they   stole  over  the   mosaics  of  the  floor  — 
silently  crept  along  the  marble  walls  —  silently  kindled 
the    rare   paintings,    each    a   nation's    boast  —  silently 
lingered  amidst  the  carvings  of  the  arched  and  pan- 


284 


THE    RESTLESS    HEART. 


ellecl  roof.  Partly  in  strong  relief,  partly  in  deep 
shadow,  stood  noble  busts  and  faultless  statues,  and 
upon  stands  of  careful  workmanship  were  piles  of 
exquisitely  finished  trifles,  gathered  with  violence  from 
conquered  jirovinces. 

A  table,  covered  with  the  evidences  of  literai-y  toil, 
was  drawn  quite  to  the  edge  of  the  garden,  and  beside 
it  was  an  open  capsa,  filled  with  choice  writing  imple- 
ments. At  a  little  distance  stood  a  massive  chair, 
whose  framework  of  scented  w'ood  was  wholly  covered 
with  curious  patterns  inlaid  with  ivory  and  gold.  In 
it  sat  the  master  of  the  mansion  —  the  master  of  Home. 
The  quivering  leaves  of  a  neighboring  orange-bough 
made  a  perpetual  dance  of  light  and  gloom  over  liis 
features,  yet  it  was  easy  to  sec  that  he  was  still  in  his 
prime.  His  complexion  in  youth,  even  femininely  fair, 
was  bronzed  by  sun  and  storm  ;  but  he  still  wore  the 
air  of  unrivalled  elegance  which  had  made  him  the 
admiration  of  the  Iloman  fashionables.  Still  his  lips 
retained  their  voluptuous,  passion- breathing  swell. 
Still  his  fiery  eye  glanced  witli  the  stern  authority 
which  dazzled  and  controlled. 

"  The  vow  of  my  boyhood  is  fulfilled,"  he  said  at 
lenaitli.  "  I  am  lirst  in  Rome.  The  world  is  at  mv 
feet.  Ihitain  and  Gaul,  Spain  and  ^lacedonia,  Syria 
and  Numidia,  all,  from  the  misty  home  of  the  nortlicrn 
storms  to  the  burning  suns  of  the  far  south,  lie  sub- 
dued before  me.     I  have  triumphed  !     I  sliidl  never 


THE    RESTLESS    HEART.  285 

be  forgotten  !  When  my  chariot  shall  have  disap- 
peared from  the  Capitol,  when  my  statue,  riven  from 
its  sphere,  shall  have  lost  its  inscription  —  '  Caesar  the 
demigod '  —  a}',  through  all  time,  shall  the  ambitious 
man,  be  he  statesman,  general,  or  scholar,  study  my 
career  and  emulate  my  victories." 

There  was  exultation  in  the  speaker's  mien,  but  it 
passed  away.  The  voice  of  flattery  was  afar ;  the 
shout  of  tlie  miJtitude  echoed  not  in  the  stillness. 
Only  the  tender,  thought-inspiring  Night  looked  on  the 
proud  imperator.  Softly  she  embraced  him ;  grad- 
ually she  led  liim  from  thoughts  of  the  world's  great- 
ness, and  the  world's  glory,  back  into  himself.  With 
gentle  force  she  compelled  him  to  listen  to  the  voice  of 
his  prisoned  soul.  Alas  !  it  spoke  but  of  disappoint- 
ment, of  weariness,  of  regret.  Always  in  advance  of 
the  step  just  attained,  it  still  struggled  upward,  and 
found  nothing  whereunto  to  cling.  It  called  aloud  for 
the  true,  the  lofty,  the  imperishable.  It  refused  to 
acknowledge,  as  its  doAver,  the  baubles  of  an  earthly 
heritage.  Dimly  conscious  of  its  affinity  with  the 
pervading  spirit  of  the  universe,  it  demanded  luiceas- 
ingly  a  higher  goal.  As  the  setting  of  the  sun  leaves 
the  snow-crested  hill-top  cold  and  lone,  so  from  his 
place  of  pride  vanished  the  fitful  splendor  cast  on  it  by 
the  visions  of  his  v^"ild  ambition.  Restless  and  un- 
happy, he  exclaimed  bitterly,  "  Has  the  fierce  struggle, 
the  indomitable  "will,  the  unflagging  toil,  the  blood  of 


iS- 


V  *^ -^  ••  "S. -^  N.-»^s. -s 


286  THE    KESTLESS    HEAUT. 


five  hundi-ed  battle-fields,  the  sack  of  a  thousand  cities, 
brought  me  but  this  r  It  is  a  mockery  —  a  dream  —  a 
fable  !     Can  thLs  be  aU  ?  " 

He  peered  eagerly  into  the  future.  A  star  might, 
perchance,  shine  upon  it,  fraught  Avith  a  nobler  prom- 
ise. His  restless  heart,  might  it  not  be  quieted  :  His 
vague,  yet  pa'isionate  yearnings,  might  they  not  be 
stilled  r  No  ;  for  that  was  tlie  j)roud  man's  punish- 
ment. His  youthful  A'igor,  his  fresh  affections,  his 
strength  of  purpose,  had  been  given  unto  e;u-th,  and  of 
earth's  fleeting  joys  must  he  partake,  yet  remain  unsat- 
isfied. The  path  up  to  truth  and  virtue  might  not  be 
trodden  by  such  impeded  footsteps.  Vanity  and  pride, 
the  Avorld-Avorship  tliat  had  grown  intense  with  time, 
were  mightier  than  the  momentary  impulse.  On 
would  they  urge  him  through  the  coming  yeai-s,  still 
seeking,  still  pursuing,  still  casting  osido  the  toy 
which  had  faded  in  tlie  grasping.  And  tlic  end  I 
Afar  in  tlic  darkness  gloanicd  rodly  tlie  flames  of  his 
funeral  pile,  Thoy  breathed  scorcliingly  upon  him  — 
they  cropt  uround  and  ombr.iccd  him.  He  shuddered 
at  his  mortality,  for  his  soul  was  suUied.  From  the 
goal  he  had  attained,  ho  looked  upward,  upward  to 
the  goal  lie  niiglit  have  won.  With  a  slight  shiver,  lie 
drew  buck  in  thi'  stately  chair,  whicli  was  tlic  synibol 
of  his  high  office,  and  covering  his  face,  he  c.\clnimcd  s 
once  more.  "  It  is  a  mockery  —  a  dream  —  a  fable  I 
I     Can  this  bo  all  r  " 


TO    Tlli;    YOUNG.  287 


i 


The  morning  star  trembled  on  the  horizon.  The 
eastern  sky  kindled  into  light.  The  sun  shone  glori- 
ously upon  Rome,  and  changed  to  gold  the  waves  of 
the  yellow  Tiber.  Again  the  busy  multitude  poured 
like  a  flood  through  this  vast  mart  of  nations.  Again 
]  the  passions  of  men,  strengthened  by  repose,  started 
into  activity,  and  violence  and  deceit  were  rife  in  the 
great  city.  Forgetful  of  the  sober  thoughts  of  his 
midnight  musings,  Cajsar  went  forth.  Again  he  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  task  of  conquest ;  and  the  his- 
torian who  records  his  wearmcss  of  spirit,  also  chron- 
icles his  insane  ambition  with  its  dark  reward. 

M.  G.  Sleeper,  {Haverhill.) 


TO    THE    YOUNG. 

It  is  well  at  times,  and  often,  for  the  young  to  pause 

J  and  consider  well  the  season  of  youth,  and  exercise 

<  that  prudent  forethought  so  necessarj'  to  insure  a  safe 

'/  and  happy  voyage  over  the  sea  of  human  life.     The 

{  inexperienced  pilot,  when  first  the  freighted  vessel  is 

S  placed  in   his  care,   will  often  cast  a  forward  glance 

I  upon  the  sea,  to  catch,  if  possible,  the  first  ajipcarance 

>  of  danger,  in  order  to  avoid   what   might   otherwise 


'w-^'^.'^^^lS| 


288 


TO    THE    YOUXG. 


have  caused  his  ruin.  So  the  young,  standing  in  the 
vestibule  of  this  busy  world,  just  ready  to  launch  off 
upon  the  open  sea,  should  cast  forward  and  catch  the 
fu'st  sound  of  the  distant  breakers,  and  avoid  the  rocks 
and  quicksands  that  lie  in  the  way.  So  wisdom  dic- 
tates ;  for  however  bright  the  morning  of  hfe  may  ap- 
pear —  though  the  sky  may  be  cloudless  and  the  sea 
unruffled  —  yet,  as  the  ocean  at  times  is  swept  by  the 
wing  of  the  tempest,  and  its  waters  ploughed  into 
movmtain  waves,  so  the  sea  of  human  life  must  be 
disturbed  by  the  tempests  of  cUsappointmcnt,  and  the 
stoi-ms  of  misfortune  wUl  roll  over  it,  milking  ship- 
"vvreck  of  the  miwise  and  improvident,  and,  to  some 
extent,  blasting  the  hopes  and  anticipations  of  the 
wisest  and  best. 


"  Life  is  a  se.i  —  how  fair  its  face, 

How  smooth  its  (iimjiliiig  waters  pace, 

Its  can<>|)y  how  pure  ! 
But  rocks  below  —  and  tempenU  sleep 
Iiisiilious  o'er  the  plassy  doei>, 

Nor  leave  an  liour  secure." 

There  is  a  work  to  be  accomplished  in  the  morning 
s  of  life — a  work  of  jiaraniouiit  importance.  I  aiu 
aware  that  the  season  of  youth  has  been,  and  now  is, 
too  generally  regarded  as  a  sort  of  play-day  —  a  period 
having  but  little  responsibility,  care,  and  labor.  In 
youth,  we  look  forwaid  to  the  tunc  when  life  shall  as- 


-S 


'/  TO    THE    YOUKG.  2S9      ? 


sume  a  deeper  significance,  and  become  a  scene  of 
earnest  toil  and  elfort.  Until  then,  we  have  nothing  to 
do.  So  the  young  live  in  the  futvu'c,  and  are  thought- 
less of  the  present. 

But  in  opposition  to  these  views  of  the  season  of 
youth,  in  my  judgment  there  is  no  period  m  human 
existence  possessed  of  such  relative  importance,  and  so 
full  of  interest,  as  tliis. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  Important  because  it  is  the 
starting  point  in  life  —  the  period  when  we  all  begin  to 
live.  In  every  human  enterprise,  it  is  essential  that 
A\e  begin  aright.  To  commence  wrong,  in  any  under- 
taking, promises  poorly  for  future  success.  The  first 
step  controls  the  second,  and  the  second  aff"ects  the 
succeeding  one,  and  so  on  through  life.  An  error  at 
the  beginning  of  life  may  prove  much  more  dangerous 
and  fatal  than  the  errors  of  our  later  years.  They  may 
pave  the  way  for  greater  sins  to  follow.  They  may  be 
the  small  beginnings  of  a  great  "  comedy  of  errors," 
w-hile  mistakes  at  the  close  of  life  will  lead  to  but  few 
succeeding  ones.  In  solving  a  mathematical  problem 
which  requires  a  long,  complicated  process  of  additions, 
subtractions,  multiplications,  and  divisions,  a  mistake 
of  one  figure  only,  and  that  of  the  least  relative  value, 
at  the  beginning,  may  prove  a  serious  error  at  the  close 
of  the  process.  That  blunder,  slight  at  first,  runs 
through  the  entire  work,  increasing  at  every  step,  lead- 
>    ing  to  other  and  greater  errors,  and  in  the  result  the     j 


290  TO    THE    YOUNG. 

magnitude  of  the  wrong  is  truly  fe;irful.  Had  that 
mistake  occurred  near  the  close  of  the  process,  its  re- 
sult would  have  been  less.  So  the  errors  of  our  youth, 
though  tx'ivial  in  themselves,  may  run  through  the 
whole  problem  of  life,  increasing  in  magnitude  all  the 
while,  so  that  what  in  the  morning  of  life  seemed  like 
a  little  cloud,  no  larger  than  the  hand,  may  multiply 
and  spread  until  it  shall  darken  the  whole  heavens. 

Let  the  young,  then,  beware  of  the  smallest  sins. 
Shun  all  error  and  wrong  in  early  life  —  so  shall  thy 
future  years  be  bright  and  peaceful,  and  blessings  shall 
follow  thee  to  the  grave. 

Secondly.  Again,  youth  is  exceedingly  important, 
because  it  is  the  most  dangerous  period  in  life.  Temp- 
tations come  upon  the  young  with  a  fearful  power. 
Every  period  brings  its  own  peculiar  temptations,  but 
none  like  that  of  youth.  Then  the  voice  of  the 
charmer  is  powerfully  dangerous ;  tlicu  the  feelings  are 
fresh,  buoyant,  and  strong  —  the  passions  ai-e  all  un- 
subdued—  the  intellect  and  moral  powers  are  unde- 
veloped —  the  habits  are  unestablisluHl,  and  tlie  young 
tread  the  path  of  virtue  with  inexperienced  and,  alas  ! 
too  often  >vith  hesitating  steps.  Happy,  thrice  happy 
is  that  young  man  wlio  stands  firmly  on  the  rock  of 
virtue,  resisting  successfully  tlic  syren  influences  of  all 
worldly  temptation  "  Woman  is  sheltered  by  fond 
arms  and  loving  counsel ;  old  age  is  i)rotected  by  its 
experience,   and  manhood   by   its   strength ;    but  the 


TO    THE    YOUNG.  291 

young  man  stands  amid  the  temptations  of  the  -world, 
like  a  self-balanced  tower.  Happy  he  who  seeks  and 
gains  the  prop  and  shelter  of  morality." 

Finally,  let  no  one  regard  the  season  of  youth  with 
indifference.  Let  the  young  improve  it  well,  and  lay 
up  treasures  for  coming  years.  «'  In  the  morning  sow 
thy  seed,  and  in  the  evening  -withhold  not  thy  hand." 
I  will  close  with  the  following  beautiful  extract.  Read 
it,  ponder  it,  and  learn  its  lessons. 

"  It  was  New  Year's  night.  An  old  man  stood  at 
his  wmdow  and  looked,  with  a  glance  of  fearful  de- 
spair, up  to  the  immovable  and  ever-blooming  heavens, 
and  down  upon  the  stUl,  pm-e,  white  earth  on  which 
no  one  was  so  joyless  and  sleepless  as  he.  His  grave 
was  near  him.  It  was  covered  -with  the  snow  of  old 
age,  and  not  with  verdure  of  youth,  and  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  a  whole  rich  life  nothing  but 
errors,  sins,  and  diseases,  a  wasted  body  and  a  desolate 
soul,  a  breast  full  of  poison,  and  an  old  age  fuH  of  re- 
pentance. The  beautiful  days  of  his  youth  came  back 
to  him  like  spectres,  and  brought  him  again  to  that 
lovely  morning  when  his  father  first  placed  him  on  the 
cross-way  of  life  which  leads,  on  the  right,  on  the 
sunny  path  of  virtue,  into  a  broad,  quiet  land,  full 
of  light  and  harvests,  and  which,  on  the  left,  plunges 
into  the  mole-walks  of  vice,  and  into  a  cave  fuU  of 
poisonous  distillations,  hissing  snakes,  and  dark,  sultry 
vapors. 


292  TO    THE    YOUNG. 

"  Alas,  the  snakes  -were  hanging  on  his  breast,  and 
the  poison-drops  were  on  his  tongue  !  He  knew  now 
where  he  -v^as.  Distracted  with  luiiitterable  grief  he 
appealed  to  Heaven :  '  Give  me  back  my  youth,  O  fa- 
ther !  place  me  again  iipon  the  cross-road,  that  I  may 
choose  otherwise.'  But  both  his  father  and  his  youth 
were  gone  long  ago.  He  saw  igncs  fatui  dancing  upon 
the  marshes  and  disappearing  in  the  cemetery,  and  he 
said,  '  These  are  my  days  of  foUy.'  He  saw  a  star  fall 
glittering  from  heaven,  and  vanish  on  the  earth. 
'  That  am  I,'  said  his  bleeding  heart,  and  the  serpent- 
fangs  of  repentance  struck  deeper  and  deeper  into  his 
wounds.  His  inflamed  imagination  pictured  to  him 
flying  night-walkers  upon  the  roofs,  and  the  windmill 
lifted  its  arms  threatening  destruction.  A  skull,  left 
behind  in  the  house  of  the  dead,  gradually  assumed 
his  features.  In  the  midst  of  this  struggle,  the  music 
for  the  New  Year  flowed  down  from  the  steeple,  like 
far-off"  church  melodies.  He  was  moved.  He  looked 
around  the  prison  and  over  the  far-reaching  earth,  and 
thought  of  the  friends  of  his  youth,  who  now,  happier 
and  better  than  he,  were  teachers  of  the  earth,  fathers 
of  hap])y  families,  and  blessed  of  men,  and  he  ex- 
claimed, '  (),  I  also,  like  you,  might  slumber  m  itli  dry 
eyes,  on  this  first  niglit  of  the  New  Year,  if  I  had 
willed  it.  Alius,  I  too  might  be  happy,  my  dear 
parents,  if  I  had  fully  obeyed  your  exhortations  !  * 

"  In  tiie  feverish  remembrance  of  the  spruig-timc  of     | 

m 


> 


TO    THE    YOUNG.  293 

his  life,  the  skull  with  his  features  seemed  to  him  to 
raise  itself.  At  length,  by  that  superstition  which  sees 
in  the  New  Year's  night  the  spirits  of  futurity,  it 
became  a  living  youth. 

"  He  could  behold  it  no  more.  He  covered  his  eyes. 
A  thousand  hot  tears  streamed  from  his  eyes  and  were 
lost  in  the  snow.  He  sighed,  in  accents  scarcely  audi- 
ble, '  Come  back,  youth,  come  back  ! '  And  it  did 
come  back.  It  was  all  a  horrid  dream.  He  was  yet  a 
youth.  His  errors  only  were  no  dream.  He  thanked 
God  that  he  was  still  young,  and  that  he  could  leave 
the  walks  of  vice  and  retui-n  to  the  sunny  path  which 
leads  into  the  land  of  harvests.  Return  with  him, 
young  reader,  if  you  are  standing  on  the  wrong  path, 
that  this  terrible  dream  become  not  in  the  future  your 
judge.     If  you  then  call,  « Retm-n,  beautiful  youth,'  it 

wiU  not  return." 

B.  M.  Tillotson. 


25  * 


\ 


-~^ — gl 

294  THE   PILGEIM    OF  THE   "WORLD. 


THE    PILGRIM    OF    THE    WOELD. 

The   world's    wearj'    pathway  —  I've    wandered  it 

through, 
Some  bright-glancing  meteor  ever  in  view  ; 
And  fair  forms  of  fancy  were  beckoning  mc  on, 
But,  ere  I  oould  grasp  them,  the  charmers  were  gone  ; 
And  small  seems  the  worth  of  the  joys  I've  possessed, 
Now  life's  journey  is  o'er,  and  the  PUgrim  must  rest. 

Men's  histories  scanned,  on  the  first  and  last  page 
The  yearnings  of  youth  and  the  anguish  of  age 
Alike  are  impressed ;  and  what  boots  it,  between, 
Perchance,  in  thy  record  a  triumph  has  been  ? 
As  vain  were  thy  efforts  that  joy  to  retain, 
As  imprison  the  sunbeam,  or  fetter  the  main. 

Beauty  and  Love  —  O  !    their  cmblcnxs  arc  flowers. 

Their  date  of  existence  is  numbered  by  hours ; 

And  Friendship's  wai-m  smile  with  the  swallow  has 

flown. 
And  Fame  with  the  popular  breathing  is  gone ; 
And  Gold  in  the  grasping  is  dimmed  by  thy  cares, 
'Twas  Hope  lent  it  lustre  —  that  hope  is  thine  lunr's  ! 


■m 


<  NEW    HAMPSHIRE.  295 

j     Thus  fair  as  the  siren,  but  false  as  her  song, 
The  -world's  painted  shadows  that  lure  us  along. 
Like  the  mist  on  the  mountain,  the  foam  on  the  deep. 
Or  the  voices  of  friends  that  wc  greet  in  our  sleep. 
Are   the   pleasures   of  earth;  and    I  mourn  that  to 

heaven 
I  gave  not  the  heart  which  to  folly  was  given. 

Sarah  Jane  Hale. 


NEW    HAMPSHIRE. 

Hail,  land  of  the  Mountain  Dominion  ! 

Uplifting  thy  crest  to  the  day, 
Where  the  eagle  is  bathing  his  pinion 

In  clouds  that  are  rolling  away. 
O,  say,  from  the  Pilgrim  descended 

Who  ti-ampled  on  Albion's  crown, 
ShaU  we,  by  thy  cataracts  splendid. 

Refuse  thee  a  wreath  of  renown  — 
A  wreath  of  renown  from  thy  evergreen  bough, 
Entwined  with  the  oak  that  adorncth  thy  brow  r 

\Vhat  though,  on  the  mountains  that  bore  us, 
The  fern  in  her  loneliness  waves  ? 

Our  forefathers  tilled  them  before  us, 
And  here  will  we  dwell  by  their  graves  ; 


296  NEW    HAMPSHIKE. 

And  beloved  of  thy  blue-eyed  daughters, 

Ever  true  to  the  brave  and  the  free, 
We'll  drink  of  the  gush  of  thy  waters, 
That  leap  m  the  sun  to  the  sea. 
Huzza  to  the  rocks  and  glens  of  the  North  ! 
Huzza  to  the  torrents  that  herald  them  forth  ! 

Ye  hills,  where  the  tempest  hath  billowed, 

O,  glance  to  the  vales  of  the  sun  ! 
Where  hearts,  on  iniquity  pillowed, 

Melt  not  o'er  the  deeds  they  have  done  ! 
Where  Slavery's  merciless  minion. 

Is  scourging  the  slave  with  his  rod, 
While  Liberty  foldeth  her  pinion, 
And  mournfully  murmurs  to  God  ; 
Where  the  dew  on  the  flower,  and  the  mist   on  the 

flood, 
With  voices  that  startle,  cry,  "Blood  !  brother,  blood  !  " 

Thank  God,  that  the  scourge  and  the  fetter 

Have  never  dishonored  thy  flag  ! 
And,  but  for  thy  shame  that  the  debtor 

Is  dragged  from  his  home  on  the  crag. 
Thy  fearless  and  puritan  spirit 

Might  speak,  willi  a  cry  of  disdain. 
To  the  valleys  whose  children  inlicrit 

'llie  slave  in  his  collar  and  chain  ! 


NEW    HAMPSHIRE.  297 

Let  the  woes  of  the  bondman  dissolve  thee  no  more, 
Till  thy  bolts  are  Mithdrav.-n  on  the  penniless  poor. 

Peace  to  us  is  evermore  singing 

Her  songs  on  thy  mountains  of  dew, 
"While  still  at  our  altars  are  swinging 

The  swords  that  our  forefathers  drew. 
But  O,  may  we  never  unshcath  them 

Again  where  the  carnage  awaits. 
But  to  our  descendants  bequeath  them 
To  hang  upon  Liberty's  gates, 
Encircled  with  garlands,  as  blades  that  were  drawn 
By  the  hosts  of  the  Lord,  that  have  conquered  and 
gone  ! 

All  haU  to  thee.  Mountain  Dominion  ! 
Whose  flag  on  the  cloud  is  unrolled, 
Where  the  eagle  is  straining  his  pinion, 

And  dipping  his  plumage  in  gold. 
We  ask  for  no  hearts  that  are  truer. 
No  spirits  more  gifted  than  thine, 
No  skies  that  are  warmer  or  bluer, 
Than  dawn  on  thy  hemlock  and  pine. 
Ever  pure  are  the  breezes  that  herald  thee  forth. 
Green  land  of  my  father  !  thou  Rock  of  the  North  ! 

J.   Q.  A.   Wood. 


298  FREE    THOUGHT. 


FREE    THOUGHT. 

Now-A-i)AYS,  when  so  many    are    tliinking,  and  so 

many  arc  writing  ;  at  a  time  when  great  tlioughts  are 

shaking   the    social   world  —  when    olden   creeds   are 

paling  in  the  searching  light  of  da^vning  science,  it  ill  | 

becomes  any  one  to  set  up  the  bounds  of  thought  and  ! 

expression.     Whenever  and  wherever  a  word  is  to  be  > 

said,  or  a  thought  to  be  \ittered,  'tis   a  gross  and  mis-  j 

crable  assumption  that  dictates  its  reception.     Much  as  | 

we  prate  of  freedom  —  intellectual  freedom  —  freedom  | 

of  thought,  will,  and  action,  but  few,   very  few  d.vue  | 

bring  out  their  own  true  thoughts  to  the  open  light ;  j 

for  should  they  do  ^dolcnce  to  popular  sentiment,  the  | 

crowd,  the  populace,  the  sect,  the  order,  all  are  tloicn  ' 

upon  them  with  nn  avalanche  of  denunciation.  I 

For  this   rea.son,  so  few  genuine  writers  arc  among     { 

> 
us ;   and    while   so   many    arc   babbling    and   warring 

among  the  tombs   and   shades   of  unmeaning  dogmas, 

but  few  dare  proclaim  the  trxithful  inspirations  of  their 

own  hearts.     A  sorry    picture   society   presents  :    the 

many,  perched  ujion  tlic   motmtain-topa  of  their  own 

delusion,  stoutly  maintaining  the  beliefs  and  opinions 

of  tlieir  kind ;  while  tho  jfcw,  yot  powerful,  deferring 


E" 


FREE    THOUGHT.  299 

the  impracticable  questions  of  eternity  to  its  own  sure 
revealings,  have  fixed  themselves  upon  the  more  cer- 
tain grounds  of  science  and  philosophy.  Still,  others 
there  are,  more  strong,  standing  on  the  broad  line  of 
truth  and  reason,  -whose  electric  thoughts  sweep  out 
upon  the  world,  and  fall  with  a  strange  spell  upon  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  men  ;  —  all,  all  intent  upon  their 
own  diverse  schemes  —  all  have  their  adherents,  all 
their  devotees. 

With  this  view,  that  looks  out  beyond  sect,  or  clan, 
or  neighborhood,  would  not  true  wisdom  mcline  us  to 
the  Hberal  side,  to  give  a  wide  berth  to  the  feehngs 
and  sentiments  of  all  ?  Indeed,  this  is  7iot  a  question 
of  pi-ivilege,  but  of  riyht ;  and  the  time  has  now  come 
when  men  may  speak  out  freely,  and  not  fear  the 
frowns  of  synods.  Without  this  freedom,  without  a 
just  regard  to  individual  opinions,  society  were  but  a 
grand  scheme  of  associative  tjTanny,  and  to  oppose  its 
edicts  were  madness. 

But  better  things  prevail,  and  time  hastens  when 
mind  will  be  fully  fi-ee.  True  lives  exist  —  true 
thought  is  growing.  It  will  one  day  find  a  tongue. 
It  will  speak.  It  will  be  heard  —  it  will  be  regarded. 
Society,  it  is  true,  is  infiicted  with  a  host  of  maladies ; 
but  they  are  not  so  deep  or  dangerous  as  many  sup- 
pose. They  arc  not  past  cure.  In  fact,  men  are  betler 
than  we  call  them,  better  than  they  seem.  "  'Tis  soci- 
ety, not  man,  that  sins."     This  truth  is  not  sufiiciently 


m- 


ii- 


300  rUEE    XHOUOHT. 

regarded  —  not  sufficiently  understood.  Men  are  not 
all  bad  —  co^vards  and  conformists,  by  custom ;  by  na- 
ture, noble,  independent,  and  strong.  A  web  of  cir- 
cumstances surround  and  control  tliem.  Yet  there's 
a  soundness  at  the  bottom ;  there's  an  iiicH  sense  in 
man  not  apparent  to  all ;  and,  despite  the  servility  of 
society,  there  is  still  latent  in  the  mind  a  respect,  a 
love  for  the  very  spirit  that  scorns  and  defies  its  pow- 
er ;  and  even  now,  every  exhibition  of  heroic  independ- 
ence but  raises  our  regard  to  the  loftiest  admiration, 
before  which  the  time-serving  conformist  of  the  day 
sinks  to  utter  crawling. 

Thus  much  has  been  said,  not  with  a  view  to  show, 
but  to  use  and  application.  Indeed,  in  this  age  of 
books  and  steam,  whoever  writes  -without  a  thouyht  or 
an  object  before  him,  had  better  be  about  something 
else  —  had  better  keep  his  wares  at  home. 

Living  together  as  wc  do,  as  communities,  as  associ- 
ates, as  friends,  there  arc  many  means  and  uses  for  the 
cultivation  of  social  uitcrcourse.  To  this  end  a  nu- 
cleus is  formed,  and  the  attracted  elements  are  dra^^^l 
together.  It  little  matters  the  means,  if  the  accom- 
plislmient  is  good.  To  this  spirit  that  unites,  that 
brings  together,  that  gives  play  to  the  liveliest  feelinga 
and  faculties  of  the  soul,  I  most  cliecrfully  subscribe ; 
but  witli  that  other  spirit,  tliat  prescribes  thought,  that 
restrains  speech,  and  is  forever  descanting  on  tlie  sins 
of    others,   I've   no   sort   of   sympathy   whatever.     It 


FUEE    THOUGHT.  301       i 


makes  no  one  better,  it  begets  no  love,  it  does  no 
good.  The  rule  by  which  I  would  abide,  and  by 
which  I  would  have  all  abide,  would  be  to  do  right  our- 
selves, and  let  others  believe,  think,  and  talk  as  they 
may.  But  adopt  and  extend  this  rule,  and  mtercourse, 
which  is  now  so  sectional  and  restrained,  would  be  free  | 
and  in^dgorating  ;  but  do  this,  and  society,  which  now  \ 
looks  so  wintry  and  forbidding,  would  put  on  the  hues  > 
and  pleasantness  of  spring.  I 

There  is  no  need  of  all  this  cutting  up,  splitting,  | 
assorting,  and  dividing  the  human  family  after  the  i 
distmctions  of  men,  No  need  of  partition  walls  ;  no  | 
need  of  hedges  ;  no  need  of  lines.  Out  with  them  !  | 
they  are  false,  invidious,  and  hateful.  Be  truthful,  be  \ 
generous,  be  free,  is  the  song  that  Nature  sings  ;  and  | 
who  would  break  those  tuneful  harmonies  —  would  | 
stop  those  inspiring  notes,  would  hurry  up  the  discord- 
ant elements  of  earth  —  ay,  cast  asunder  the  angel 
band  that  shout  around  the  throne  of  Heaven  r 

F.  Ji.  M. 


\ 


302  THE    DAUGHTEK    OF    THE    ISLES. 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    ISLES. 

[Lucy  Goudale  Thurston,  daughter  of  Rev.  Asa  and  Mrs.  Lucy 
Thurston,  (missionaries  at  the  Sandwich  Islands,  where  she  was 
born,)  arrived  at  New  York,  on  a  visit  to  the  land  of  her  fathers, 
and  immediately  after  sickened  and  died,  at  the  age  of  seventeeu 
years  and  ten  months,  leaving  a  sure  and  sweet  hope  of  accept- 
ance through  the  Redeemer. 

The  biographer  of  this  interesting  girl  remarks,  "  Hers  was  a 
peaceful  home.  AtTection  made  it  happy,  and  regiilar  and  varied 
occupations  added  zest  to  its  enjoyments.  When,  with  her 
mother  and  sister,  she  walked  along  the  shores  of  the  broad  Paritle, 
and  listened  to  tales  of  her  fatherland,  and  of  a  Christian  land, 
lier  heart  never  sighed  for  the  far-off*  region  she  had  brightly  pic- 
tured in  her  imagination  ;  and  she  returned  with  a  contented  spirit 
to  her  quiet  home  at  Kailua."] 

F.vin  claxiKhtcr  of  the  sunny  isles, 

Th.it  sit  like  soverci;^ns  on  the  sea, 
How  shall  I  weave  a  song  of  smiles 

For  her  who  never  smiled  on  rac  ? 
Or  how  of  graces  may  I  speak, 

That  never  yet  have  blest  mine  eyes  ; 
The  dewy  Up,  the  virgin  check 

Of  one  that's  past  beyond  the  skies  ? 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    ISLES.  303 

I  know  that  Fancy's  pearls  may  shine 

On  Beauty,  and,  like  pearls,  be  cold  ! 
That  Flattery's  flowers  round  Wit  may  t^n-ine, 

And  die  on  bosoms  they  enfold ; 
And  well  I  know  the  exalted  Mind, 

That  late  informed  thy  perfect  clay, 
Would  not  -with  Love  or  Wit  be  shrined 

Nor  be  adored  in  servile  lay. 


I  know  that  Death  invests  the  fiiend 

With  worth  Existence  never  knew ; 
And  to  defects  we  love  to  lend 

The  veil  that  gives  them  Virtue's  hue  ; 
But  thou  need'st  not  our  glimmering  light, 

To  shine  on  thy  regretted  tomb ; 
Nor  flowers  of  verse  —  whose  path  was  bright, 

Whose  life  was  one  bouquet  of  bloom. 


And  thou,  beyond  as  well  the  songs 

As  wailings  of  a  world  like  this. 
Art  mingling  with  the  sister-throngs 

That  early  fled  away  to  bliss ; 
As  far  removed  from  paltry  praise, 

Which  vainly  would  thy  notice  win, 
As  from  material  wants  and  ways  — 

As  thy  pure  spirit  is  from  sin ! 


w- 


304  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    ISLES. 

I  love  to  think  thy  tender  age 

Was  wed  to  Nature's  wondrous  book ; 
And  that  thou  didst  upon  its  page 

Of  flowers  and  shells  and  planets  look  ; 
Aiid  yet,  from  flower,  and  star,  and  sea, 

A  very  child  —  did'st  turn  away, 
To  seek  the  glances  dear  to  thee, 

In  thine  own  quiet  Kailua. 


I  love  to  think  how  free  thou  wast 

From  Fashion's  lore,  that  taints  our  kind ; 
That  still  is  purchased  at  the  cost 

Of  kingdoms  —  a  transparent  mind ! 
And  sigh  to  think  earth  has  so  few  — 

Such  price  is  for  refinement  paid  — 
As  thou,  to  simple  Nature  true, 

A  guileless  and  a  trusting  maid. 


I  sigh  for  her  ^^•ho  nobly  brought 

Such  wc;ilth  from  Honolulu's  strand ; 
And  him  wlio,  senduig,  meekly  tliought 

With  such  to  bless  its  father-land. 
And  yet  'tis  well,  tliis  tropic  gem 

All  polished  —  though  to  tlieso  unknown  — 
So  early  shines,  a  diudcm. 

Where  shines  the  rainbow-cinctured  throne. 


m^ 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    ISLES.  305 

Thanks  for  the  record  of  thy  worth, 

Traced  by  Aifection's  modest  pen ; 
Tears  gave  I  to  its  earnest  truth, 

Though  counted  not  -with  weeping  men. 
And  better  thought  I  of  ray  race, 

Redeemed  by  excellence  so  rare ; 
And  richer  seemed  abounding  Grace, 

That  sought  and  dowered  such  lovely  heii-. 

With  books  that  may  not  perish  be 

These  pages  numbered ;  youth  shall  know 
How  to  perfection's  symmetry 

The  daughter  of  the  Lord  may  grow  ; 
And  here,  as  mirrored  in  a  glass, 

May  see  how  fair  the  saint  may  shine, 
"Who  lets  this  world  unheeded  pass, 

And  svirely  seeks  a  world  divine. 

Farewell  I    I  weep  that  flower  so  young, 

The  nursling  of  a  gentle  sky, 
Should  on  our  shores  be  coldly  flung. 

In  all  its  loveliness,  to  air. 
And  yet  'twas  ordered  by  His  will, 

Who  wisely  hath  events  decreed  — 
Thou  wast  but  lent ;  ye  griefs,  be  still ! 

He  but  recalled  when  he  had  need. 

W.  B.  Tappan. 

> 

^'^^       26  *  ~" 


5       306  THE    LOTED    AND    LOST.  \ 


THE    LOVED    AND    LOST. 


How  beautifully  true  is  the  scriptural  compai'ison  of 
life  to  a  flower,  which  springeth  up  in  the  morning 
and  blooms,  but  iu  the  evening  is  cut  down  and  < 
■withers  away  !  Its  exceeding  bcaiity  and  comeliness,  ^ 
its  delicate  tints,  rose-colored  and  golden,  its  -virgin  I 
buds  and  blossoms,  and  the  incense  which  it  lavishes  \ 
from  its  fragrant  urn  upon  the  summer  air,  as  it  leans  | 
forward  for  its  gentle  kiss  —  what  are  they  all,  and 
what  do  they  avail  ?  Alas,  they  are  as  nothing.  Ila- 
\  diant  though  it  be  with  Nature's  sunniest  smile,  and 
;  arrayed  in  her  loveliest  attire,  the  little  flower  which 
J  lifteth  up  its  head  so  proudly  at  moni,  bows  to  the 
{  blast,  is  stricken  down,  and  withers  away,  wet  with 
>  the  dews  of  night.  And  so  it  is  with  life.  W'c  hardly 
i  enter  the  world,  flushed  with  bright  hopes  and  luitici- 
j  pations,  ere  we  are  summoned  by  the  angel  of  death  to 
I  leave  it.  A\'e  hardly  t;iste  its  enjoj-mcnts  and  its 
\  pleasures,  ere  the  cup  is  dashed  from  our  lips  forever. 
The  eloquent  lip  becomes  pale  and  mute  at  the  moment 
•we  are  drinking  in  its  honied  accents.  The  bright  eye 
grows  dim,  and  the  strong  arni  motionless,  while  we 
are  witnessing  their  power  and  conquests.    The  bril- 

~^ — (S 


ii^ 


THE    LOVED    AND    LOST.  307 


liant  intellect  flashes  upon  us,  dazzling  and  delighting  ? 

the  world,  and  in  an  instant  is  gone.     The  loved  one  ! 

clings  to  us  in  the  bloom  of  life,  folds  her  hands  about  | 

our  neck,    and   the  next  moment  lies  lifeless  in  our  ! 

}     arms.     Honor    and   Station,    however   high,    have   no  ? 

/     power  to  arrest  the  hand  of  the  destroyer.     The  silver  I 

i     locks  of  Age  bow  before  him.     Youth  and  Innocence  I 

>     smile  and  plead  to  him,  but  he  delights  to  feast  upon  ■ 

their  very  smiles  and  dimples,  and  Beauty, 

"  As,  with  embroidered  scarf  and  golden  zone, 
She  sweepeth  by  towards  her  jewelled  throne," 

—  Beauty,  the  impersonation  of  all  that  is  lovely  and 
excellent  in  woman,  is  touched  by  the  icy  finger  of 
Death,  falls  to  the  earth,  and  becomes  the  food  of 
worms  Tft^'^^^^i^'^^ 

It  is  hard  to  part  with  those  we  love,  and  it  seems 
lilie  tearing  away  the  heart-strings,  to  surrender  them 
up  to  the  cold  chamber  of  the  tomb.  Notwithstanding 
all  the  consolation  which  religion  or  philosophy  brings 
to  the  wounded  spirit,  still,  the  loss  of  those  to  whom 
we  are  endeared  unmans  one,  if  he  has  a  throb  of 
kindly  feelings  in  his  bosom.  Cold  and  heartless  in- 
deed must  be  that  philosophy  —  born  of  Christianity 
it  cannot  be  —  which  weeps  not  over  the  remains  of 
the  loved  and  lost.  The  tear  gushes  to  the  sealed  eye 
from  the  desert-heart  -within,  Avhcn  smitten  by  the 
hand  of  Omnipotence,  as  the  waters  gushed  from  the 


308  THE    LOVED    AND    LOST. 

rock  ill  the  -wilderness,  when  the  prophet  smote  it  A^dth 
his  wand.  To  see  the  lip  jjale  in  death,  yet  wreathed 
with  a  living  smile  —  to  feel  the  brow  cold  and  icy,  and 
the  eye,  like  tliat  of  Medora  — 

"  O,  o'er  ihe  eye  Death  most  exerts  Iiis  might. 
And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  tliroiie  of  light  — 
Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  tli;u  long,  last  eclipse. 
But  spares  ua  yet  the  smile  around  her  lips." 

—  all  this  moves  us,  unless  we  have  a  heart  of  ada- 
mant. And  then  the  light-bounding  step,  so  familiar 
and  pleasant  to  hear  ;  the  voice  of  welcome,  at  morn- 
ing, noon,  and  night;  the  eye  that  weeps  over  our 
misfortunes,  and  fills  with  tears  of  joy  at  our  success ; 
the  smile  at  all  times,  and  always  happy,  and  bright, 
and  cheerful ;  the  earnest  jirayer  for  the  little  ones ; 
the  care  and  Avatchfulness  over  them ;  the  devotion 
and  unceasing  attention,  the  clinging  love  and  more 
than  earthly  affection  by  the  side  of  the  sick  couch  at 
midniglit ;  how  can  we  forget  tlicm,  or,  remembering, 
forbear  to  weep  and  mourn  tlie  loss  of  those  who  pos- 
sess them  ? 

I  may  err,  and  yet  I  cannot  but  regard  the  tic  which 
binds  the  liusband  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom  ns  the 
golden  thread  of  life,  and  the  affection  which  springs 
from  tliat  relation  as  the  holiest  iiiul  jmrost  of  all  the 
passions.  Indeed,  it  embraces  within  itself,  and  cen- 
tres u])Oii  the  very  heart's  slirinc,  the  p\n-er  and  better 


THE    LOVED    AND    LOST.  309 

attributes  of  them  all.  The  undymg  .strength,  the 
tenderness  and  gushing  ardor,  of  other  affections  are 
admitted.  Their  developments  are  dehghtful,  and 
what  a  s-weet,  mellow  radiance  do  they  spread  over  the 
pathway  of  Ufc,  as  it  were  a  golden  ray  from  the 
throne  of  heaven  itself!  The  love  which  exists  be- 
tween young  hearts,  in  the  hey-day  of  life,  has  been 
sung  and  felt,  and  pronounced  ecstatic.  The  love  of 
sister  for  sister,  or  brother  for  brother ;  of  a  brother  for 
his  sister,  his  early  playmate,  and  the  sharer  of  his 
sports  and  his  sorrows,  and  the  return  of  that  love 
fi-om  the  sister's  heart ;  the  love  of  a  mother  for  her 
child ;  ay,  and  above  all,  the  love  of  a  father  for  his 
daughter  —  how  sweet,  how  endearing  are  they  all ! 
But  that  affection  which  exists  between  a  young  wife 
and  the  object  of  her  earliest  love,  the  creature  of  her 
virgin  heart,  is  chaster,  purer,  and  hoUer  than  all. 
Indeed,  it  is  all  in  one  ;  and  when  the  tie  which  binds 
them  is  broken,  when  the  young  mother  is  stricken 
do^vIl  to  the  cold  earth,  and  death  feasts  upon  her  lips, 
her  dimples,  and  her  smiles  ;  when  the  young  father  is 
snatched  away  from  the  side  of  her,  the  mother  of  Ms 
children,  and  the  being  of  his  tendcrcst  love,  what  a 
void  is  left !  What  agony,  what  grief,  press  upon 
the  spii-it  of  the  surviving  one  !  We  feel  as  though  a 
golden  harp,  to  whose  scraijhic  tones  we  are  listening, 
had  suddenly  stopped,  while  we  strain  the  ear  to  catch 
its  magic  sounds.    The  survivor,  for  the  moment,  seems 


m- 


310 


LIVING    AND    MEANS. 


to  die,  and  tlie  living  heart  to  lie  in  the  cold  tomb  with 
the  dead  and  gone.  The  presiding  spirit  has  vanished 
from  the  family  chcle  ;  and  the  bereft,  as  the  household 
gods  lay  scattered  around,  no  longer  to  be  gathered  up 
by  that  presiding  one,  removed  from  earth  to  heaven, 
exclauns  in  the  touching  language  of  Ruth,  the  beau- 
tiful gleaner  of  Bethlehem,  "  Whither  thou  goest  I 
•will  go,  and  where  thou  lodgest  I  -will  lodge.  Thy 
people  shall  be  my  jjeople,  and  thy  God  my  God. 
Where   thou  diest   will   I   die,    and  there   will   I   be 

bviried." 

J.  H.  Warland. 


LIVING    AND    MEANS. 


The  world  is  full  of  people  who  can't  imagine  why 
they  don't  prosper  like  their  neighbors,  when  the  real 
obstacle  is  not  in  banks  nor  tariffs,  in  bad  public 
policy  nor  hard  times,  but  in  their  own  extravagance 
and  heedless  ostentation.  The  young  mecliauic  or 
clerk  marries  and  takes  a  house,  which  he  proceeds  to 
furnish  twice  as  expensively  as  ]io  can  afford,  aiid  then 
his  wife,  instead  of  taking  hold  to  lielp  him  earn  a 
UvcUhood  by  doing  her  own  work,  must  liavo  a  liired 
servant  to  help  her  spend  his  limited  earnings.  Ten 
years  afterward  you  will  liud  liiui  struggUug  on  under 


m 


LIVING    AND    MEANS.  311 

a  double  load  of  debts  and  children,  Avondering  wliy 
the  luck  was  always  against  him,  while  his  friends 
regret  his  imhappy  destitution  of  financial  ability. 
Had  they  from  the  first  been  frank  and  honest,  he  need 
not  have  been  so  unlucky. 

Through  every  grade  of  society  this  vice  of  inordi- 
nate expenditure  insinuates  itself.  The  single  man, 
"  hu-ed  out  "  in  the  country  at  ten  to  fifteen  dollars 
per  month,  who  contrives  to  dissolve  his  year's  earn- 
ings in  frolics  and  fine  clothes ;  the  clerk,  who  has 
three  to  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and  melts  down 
twenty  to  fifty  of  it  into  liquor  and  cigars,  are  paral- 
leled by  the  young  merchant  who  fills  a  spacious 
house  with  costly  furniture,  gives  dinners,  and  drives 
a  fast  horse,  on  the  strength  of  the  profits  he  expects 
to  realize  when  his  goods  are  all  sold  and  his  notes  all 
paid.  Let  a  man  have  a  genius  for  spending,  and 
whether  his  income  is  a  dollar  a  day  or  a  dollar  a 
minute,  it  is  equally  certain  to  prove  inadequate.  If 
dining,  winning,  and  party-giving  won't  help  him 
through  with  it,  building,  gaming,  and  speculating 
will  be  sure  to.  The  bottomless  pocket  v,-ill  never  fill, 
no  matter  how  bounteous  the  stream  pouring  into  it. 
The  man  who,  being  single,  does  not  save  money  on 
six  dollars  per  week,  will  not  be  apt  to  on  sixty  ;  and 
he  who  docs  not  lay  up  something  in  his  first  year  of 
independent  exertion,  will  be  pretty  likely  to  wear  a 
poor  man's  hair  into  his  grave. 


312 


LIVING    AND    MEANS. 


When  the  Avorld  shall  have  become  Aviser,  and  its 
standard  of  morality  more  lofty,  it  will  perceive  and 
affirm  that  profuse  expenditure,  even  by  one  who  can 
pecuniarly  afford  it,  is  pernicious  and  unjustifiable  ; 
that  a  man,  however  wealthy,  has  no  right  to  lavish  on 
his  owti  appetites,  his  tastes,  or  his  ostentation,  that 
which  might  have  raised  hundi-eds  from  destitution 
and  dcspau-  to  comfort  and  usefulness.  But  that  is  an 
improvement  in  public  sentiment  which  must  be 
waited  for,  while  the  other  is  more  ready  and  obvious. 

The  meanness,  the  dishonesty,  the  iniquity,  of 
squandering  thousands  unearned,  and  keeping  others 
out  of  money  that  is  justly  theirs,  have  rarely  been 
urged  and  enforced  as  they  should  be.  They  need  but 
to  be  considered  and  understood,  to  be  luiiversally 
loathed  and  detested. 

Horaee  Orteley. 


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